Tell Me Where It Hurts
by SuddenlyTragic
Summary: House gets sick and struggles through treatment, pushing everyone away to deal with it on his own.
1. Chapter 1

His eyes shot open while he drew in a sharp breath. His bedroom was dark, remnants of his dream dispersing as he became more aware of his surroundings. The clock beside his bed read 2:39 AM, and he couldn't remember when he'd passed out.

Groaning, House rolled over onto his left side, massaging his thigh to try to ease the angry pain. It had to have been at least a few hours since he passed out - the amount of pain in his leg let him know he hadn't taken pain meds in a while.

He was slick with sweat and his mouth tasted bad. Racking his brain but not finding an answer, he tried to figure out what woke him.

"Bad dream," he mumbled to himself and sat up, hissing quietly as his leg protested the movement. He blindly reached to the table and grabbed his pill bottle, and felt the beginnings of panic set in. He rattled the bottle and felt only one Vicodin left, and he began to remember the night.

His pharmacy wouldn't refill his prescription so soon, as he'd just been given this bottle four days ago. He came home at eight and drank until he passed out, whenever that was. Which was why his leg hurt so bad, so early in the morning.

With his cane in one hand and the bottle in the other, he limped toward his bathroom, the liquor he'd consumed still slightly affecting his senses. He flipped on the light and grimaced, then dropped the pill into his mouth and swallowed with water from the tap. He splashed the cool water on his face, then put his forehead against the cool counter top. He was feeling like crap, but whether that was from the lack of Vicodin, the excess of liquor in his system, or the flu he'd had for a few days, he didn't know.

After limping back to his bed, he dropped onto his stomach and passed back out.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

"I'm not coming in today."

House held his cell phone carefully in his left hand while he wrapped his blanket tighter around his shoulders. Slowly, he laid back on the couch, leaving his right leg on the floor.

"Why not?" Cuddy asked, her voice sharp. "What's going on? You've called in the last two days."

House closed his eyes and rubbed his eyes tiredly. "I'm too sick to come in."

"You've been too sick to come in for the third day in a row now, House. I didn't even hear from you yesterday. Wilson was the one who told me- at noon!- that you weren't planning on coming in. What in the hell is going on?"

House tried to remember the previous morning, but came up with nothing. He only remembered bits and pieces.

"I don't know what you're talking about. I called you yesterday. And I told you, I'm sick. I think I've got the flu."

"You got your flu shot last month, didn't you? You were supposed to."

"I must have gotten a different strain." House sat back up and rubbed his thigh absentmindedly. "If you need me to come in, I will. But I haven't been able to get out of bed or off my couch for more than a few minutes at a time. I'm actually sick."

Cuddy sighed and stayed quiet for a moment and House held his breath. He really was sick, and he really was too weak to walk around, much less ride his motorcycle and work. He wasn't going to go in whether she said he could stay home or not - he was just being reasonable.

"Fine. Call someone if you need antibiotics or anything. Stay in bed. Call me tomorrow if you can't come in." She hung up without a goodbye.

Sighing, House hit end on his phone and dialed a different number. After only two rings, Wilson answered.

"I'm not coming in today," House said, glancing at his watch. 9:05 am. Wilson would be at work.

"Thanks for keeping me updated."

"I'm really sick, you know."

"I'm sorry to hear that." House didn't miss the tone in his friend's voice, as if for some reason, he didn't believe it. "You're not calling me to tell me you're not coming in."

House sighed and closed his eyes. "I need more pills. My pharmacy won't refill my script for another week."

"A week?! When did you get the last refill?" Wilson asked incredulously. Just as House opened his mouth to confess, Wilson cut him off. "Just don't tell me. I don't want to know. You've been holed up in your bedroom for the last two days pounding down drink after pill after drink, haven't you?"

"You make it sound like a bad thing when you say it like that."

"I'm not doing it. If you're out, it's your own fault."

"Wilson, please?" House put his head in his right hand and sighed. "I haven't been like that. I've been drinking, yes, but not the entire day, and I have the flu, and I feel like complete shit, and all I want is for my leg to stop hurting so fucking bad so I can get more than two hours of sleep at a time."

"If I get you one week's worth of pills, I'm holding onto them."

"I'm not a three year old who will sneak as many Skittles as I can behind mommy's back if I have the chance," House snapped, and massaged the corners of his eyes as he felt a headache come on. "Fine. Fine. Do whatever you think you need to do."

House shut off his phone and dropped it onto the coffee table and fell back onto the couch. He wrapped his blanket around his shoulders tightly and closed his eyes.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Some time later - he didn't know how much time had gone by - there was a knock at his door. He groaned and wiped sweat off of his face as he sat up. He grabbed his cane and forced himself to stand up as another knock sounded from his door. His leg screamed in protest at him as he limped to the door, and he swallowed back nausea that rolled over him because of the pain.

Wilson stood on the other side of the door, holding a paper pharmacy bag in one hand, and a grocery bag in the other.

"You look like you're detoxing," Wilson said when he got a good look at him, then followed House back into the living room.

"Well, I'm not." House dropped back onto his couch and dropped his cane. He put his head in his hands, exhausted from the short walk. His shirt clung uncomfortably to his body as sweat started to dry.

Cool hands touched the back of his neck, and he shrugged away from them.

"You're burning up."

"I didn't notice. Thanks." House snapped and looked up at his friend. Wilson dropped the pharmacy bag on the table in front of him.

"Have you eaten anything? You look like you've lost weight."

House shook his head and ripped open the bag and pulled out two bottles. One was an anti-biotic, the other was his pain medication. He pushed down the lid and twisted and almost sighed in relief when it opened and he saw the white pills staring up at him. He took three and swallowed them dry, then dropped the bottles onto the table and rested his head on the back of the couch.

"You need to eat. Here, I stopped at the store and got you some crackers and soup." Wilson rummaged through the plastic grocery bag and pulled out a box of crackers and put them on the table with a bottle of water.

"I'm not hungry. I want to go back to sleep. Thanks for the pills. Can you leave a couple for the rest of the day?" House didn't open his eyes, partly from his exhaustion, and partly because he didn't want to see the look on Wilson's face.

The couch sunk down a little as Wilson sat beside him. Again, Wilson put cool hands on his neck, but he didn't try to move away. They felt good against his hot skin.

"Does your throat hurt?" Wilson asked, and he pressed his fingers into his neck gently. House shook his head. "Not at all?"

"No. It doesn't even hurt a smidge."

"Your lymph nodes are swollen."

House opened his eyes wide and feigned fear. "Do I have cancer, doc?"

Wilson sighed and dropped his hands. He leaned over and picked up the bottle of antibiotics and the water and handed them to House.

"Just take the medication and rest. And eat something. I'll come back after work with the Vicodin. Make these last until then," Wilson said as he dropped three more pain pills on the coffee table.

House opened the water and took the antibiotics after Wilson left, then curled back up on the couch and waited for his pain meds to kick in.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: I don't own anybody in this story.

Author's note: Thanks so much for the reviews and all of you who added this to an update alert. This is my first House fic, so I apologize if people are a bit OOC. I'm trying!

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

House woke up on the couch and didn't have time to even sit up before nausea rolled over him in a dizzying wave. He had enough warning to roll onto his side before he started vomiting on the floor. He put his left hand on the coffee table and dropped to his knees on the floor in front of the bile and crackers he'd just thrown up. He reached out blindly for his phone and flipped it open, and saw that it was only 1 in the afternoon. He felt like he'd been sleeping for days, and he was still so tired. He dropped the phone, his hand shaking, and tried to stand up. His right leg protested, and he dropped back down onto his good knee and lowered his head as he started retching again.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Some time later he heard his front door open and close, and someone calling out his name. He lifted his head from the toilet bowl enough to see the door, but couldn't get any farther than that. He closed his eyes and shivered - it was _freezing_. His shirt clung to him from sweat, and he didn't understand why he was sweating when it was so damn cold in the house.

"Are you okay?" Wilson asked from the door. House raised his eyes to the man, but couldn't raise his face from the side of the toilet seat.

"I'm just testing out the acoustics," he managed to get out before he started dry heaving into the toilet again. A moment later, he felt a cold towel on his neck, and he flinched and raised his hand to pull it off. "What the hell?" He looked up and saw Wilson kneeling beside him, holding the towel in place.

"You need to go to the hospital, House. You need fluids. You're really sick." Wilson brought the towel up and placed it onto House's forehead.

"I told you I was really sick," House muttered and forced himself to sit up. He was vaguely aware of his body trembling. "I need to get this shirt off. It's freezing in here."

Wilson pursed his lips, but helped his friend take off the drenched shirt. He gasped slightly, and House looked up at him, startled.

"_What happened?_" Wilson breathed, running fingers over House's ribs carefully. House looked down and was just as surprised to see a large purple bruise.

"I pissed off a hooker. A word of advice, don't tell them their looser than -"

"Seriously, House. What happened?"

House sighed and struggled to get to his knees. He wrapped one arm around the side of the tub, and used his other hand on the edge of the toilet, but his body wasn't cooperating. He fell back onto the floor weakly.

"Did you fall?"

"Yes." House dropped his eyes to his chest and raised his eyebrows at the bruise. "I didn't think I fell that hard."

Wilson put his arm under his friend's shoulder's and helped him to his feet. "Let's just get you to the hospital, and we'll get you better." As they took their first steps out of the bathroom, Wilson grabbed his friend tightly as he started to go down, groaning. He helped him down to the floor again and watched as House rubbed his thigh, his eyes closed and face screwed up in pain. "Do you need more Vicodin?"

"I didn't even take the ones you left," House said quietly, breathing deeply to try and alleviate the pain. "I can't keep anything down."

"Then I'm calling an ambulance," Wilson said as he stood up and pulled his phone out of his pocket.

"I don't need a damn ambulance. Just give me my pills and I'll be fine." House glared up at Wilson, who didn't even _glance_ at him as he dialed 911. He kicked him in the ankle weakly, and that did win him a slightly annoyed glare.

House pushed himself against the wall and laid his head back and sighed. His body hurt, and he was exhausted. The last thing he thought of was he was well enough to walk to Wilson's car, and the last words he heard were distant. "_House? House!_"

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

When he came to, he was in the back of the ambulance. He had enough strength to look up and saw Wilson above him, holding another towel to his head and staring back. He was talking, but House passed back out before he could understand the words.

The second time he woke up, he had a little more time to take in the situation. He was being wheeled down a hallway, and people around him were talking, but their words were a buzz. He lifted his arm to wipe sweat out of his eyes, and was surprised to see a hand gripping his. Right before his eyes closed again, he saw Cameron looking down at him and heard, "_..hear me?_"

Some time later, he fully woke up, startled. He shot upright, and panicked momentarily before he dropped back onto the bed. The _beep, beep, beep_ of the heart monitor beside his bed told him his heart was at least working. He raised his right arm, saw the IV, and looked up at the saline bag. He smiled briefly at the morphine bag, then looked up at the monitors. O2 was good, heart rate fine, and he felt better. The room was empty.

Carefully, he pulled the monitors off his chest and listened as the machine flat lined. He scooted to the end of the bed and started to stand up when two nurses and Cameron burst into the room.

"Jesus House," Cameron sighed, skidding to a halt in the doorway. The nurses exchanged looks and left without a word.

"Gotcha," House smirked, and reached for his cane beside the bed. Carefully, he stood up, the IV in his hand aching as he put pressure on the cane. "Who in the hell put my IV in my cane hand?" He debated pulling it out, but decided against it because then he wouldn't have the morphine.

Cameron put her hands on his chest and pushed him back onto the bed. "You aren't ready to leave yet. Just lay down and rest."

"Yeah, I am ready to leave. I feel better. Thanks for your help," he said, pulling the tape off his hand to pull out the IV. He had Vicodin at home.

"Stop it," Cameron smacked his hand and smoothed the tape back in place. "For once, will you act your age, and listen to me, and just rest?"

"Where's Wilson?" He glanced at the clock on the wall, and saw it was after eight. It was dark outside.

"He's waiting for test results and then he'll be back. Lay down before you pass out again."

House pushed her hands away from his shoulders and pulled his legs back onto the bed. He glared up at her. "Test results for who? And I'm not going to pass out, I feel one hundred percent better."

"I'm sure you do. You have more morphine in your system than what we usually give any patients."

"What test results, Cameron?" House _did _feel tired, and the morphine _did _make him feel like he was about to float away. He certainly wasn't about to give her the pleasure in knowing she was right, though.

"Wilson drew some blood when we got here. I don't know what he's testing for. He should be back in a little while," Cameron stuck the heart monitor cords back onto his chest, then adjusted the flow rate of the IV. She looked down at House with a smile. "Just get some rest now. He'll be here when you wake up."

"What if I don't want him here when I wake up?" He asked and felt the pain medicine relax his muscles. "Did you give me more morphine?" He looked up at her, his eyes feeling a little heavier. "If I get this much morphine from you now, I should be a patient here permanently." She just smiled and shook her head, resting her hand on his forehead gently. His eyes fluttered closed, enjoying the cool touch of her hand.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

When he opened his eyes again, Cameron was gone, the hand on his forehead replaced by Wilson's. When Wilson saw his eyes open, he pulled his hand back and sat down in a chair that was beside the bed. He sighed softly, holding a folder in his hand.

"What time is it?" House asked, his mouth dry and words slurred slightly. He blinked at the clock, but his eyes wouldn't focus. Cameron must have given him _a lot_ of morphine.

"It's almost midnight," Wilson answered tiredly. He rubbed his eyes and stifled a yawn. "How are you feeling?"

House could definitely sleep more. _Why am I so tired?_ he wondered idly. He gave Wilson a stern look. "I'm ready to go home now, doctor."

"You can't." Wilson gave him a sympathetic smile, then opened the file in his hands. "I ran some blood tests the last few hours. The bruising, the exhaustion, the anemia -"

"I'm not anemic."

"Yes, you are." Wilson briefly glanced up from the folder, sighed, and closed it. He stared hard at the bed, and nervously started picking at the blanket, then forced himself to stop and meet his friend's eyes. "You have leukemia. Acute myelogenous leukemia."

House stared into Wilson's lost eyes, and shook his head slightly.

"I just have the flu, Wilson."

Wilson nodded sympathetically. "Yes, you _do _have the flu. Your immune system couldn't fight it off, and that's why you got so sick. At this point, I don't know if the fever, exhaustion and sweating, all of those symptoms you're showing, are signs of the cancer or the flu. But, it doesn't matter, either. We know what you have, and we need to discuss treatment."

"Give me the folder," House said, and held his hand out. He could feel himself slipping into shock, but fought against it. Wilson handed the folder to his friend - his _patient_ now - and House didn't miss the sad look from the doctor. Carefully, as if the contents of the folder were fragile, House leafed through the results, and saw for himself what Wilson just told him. He double - triple - checked the name on the paperwork to make sure they were his results, and he snapped. "Get out Wilson." He kept his voice steady and as calm as possible. Wilson stayed still and didn't move an inch. "GET OUT!" He screamed, and threw the folder onto the floor. Wilson jumped, startled, and tried to reach out to him. House threw his hands away, and stared hard at his _friend_. "Get. Out. I don't want to see you. I don't want to discuss treatment. I don't want you to be here. GO!"

Wilson stood up, confused, but still had that damn look, that sympathy mixed with loss. House's blood boiled at that look.

"You've already given up on me. I can see it in your eyes. Get out before I kick your ass."

"House," Wilson held his hands up, but took a few unsteady steps backwards. "Listen to me. You aren't going to die. You're going to be fine. But we need -"

"What _you _need to do right now, Wilson, is stay the fuck away from me." House stood up, ripping the cords from his chest and the IV from his hand. He took his cane and limped toward the oncologist, furious, and scared. Nurses stood outside the door while the heart monitor screeched, an ironic sound for House to hear at the moment. _I'm going to die_.

"I know that you're scared. Let me help you. And if not me, let Cameron, or Foreman, or maybe Thirteen -"

House raised his cane. "Get out or I will hurt you."

Wilson nodded, his shoulders slumping. "Fine. Fine. I'll..I'll have a nurse come in and fix your IV. I'm sorry, Greg." Wilson turned around and disappeared into the hallway.

House watched the doorway for a minute before limping to his bathroom, where he locked the door (he was vaguely aware in the back of his mind that he wasn't supposed to lock the bathroom doors), and dropped his cane. He turned on the water as hot as he could stand it and dropped the hospital gown he wore to the floor. He sat on the seat in the shower - the handicap seat - and lowered his head as the water dripped down his body. He saw the bruises Wilson had referred to, on his chest and knees, everywhere he landed when he fell. He turned the water up a little hotter, knowing he was so cold because he was anemic. He was anemic because he had _cancer_.

_Cancer._


	3. Chapter 3

After his shower, House found the test results on the floor where he'd thrown them. He stood in his towel, water pooling at his feet, as he stared at the offending paperwork. His mind was blank, and everytime he dragged up a new thought, it was whisked away after only a brief second. Cancer, treatment, work. Those three thoughts popped up and floated into the abyss. He wanted Wilson back so he could wrap his hands around his neck and scream at him more. If he had the energy, he'd march to Wilson's office in his towel. At this hour nobody would be in the hallway. But chances were good that Wilson already left.

Pain in his leg finally snapped him out of his daze and he bent down to grab the papers. He limped to his bed and sat down and pushed the button on his bed to call the nurse. Without another look at the results, he tore the papers up and dropped them in the garbage can beside the bed.

"Yes?" The nurse asked hesitantly from the doorway. _What is her name?_ he wondered idly. He knew her, and worked with her daily, and he couldn't drag up a name. For some reason, not knowing her name made him feel a twinge of guilt. If he died tomorrow, he wouldn't know the names of the people he worked with.

"I need my IV fixed," he said blankly. _I should say please_. The word wouldn't form, and he was too tired to try harder.

The nurse was quick. She hooked up the IV like a pro (_She _is _a pro_ his mind said) and before he knew it, he was holding a clean hospital gown and she was asking, "is there anything else I could get you?"

House shook his head and when she left, he pulled the gown over his head and carefully threaded the IV through the sleeve before tying it up. He felt a little better, with the medication, but he knew he wouldn't get better if his disease wasn't treated.

_Cancer._ He thought, and anger sparked inside his mind. Just like that, the blank void in his head shattered, and he felt cold. _How dare Wilson run those tests without asking?_

"They're wrong," he told himself, but knew it was a lie. Wilson wouldn't mess it up. _Unless he's trying to get me to clean up and take better care of myself_. The thought made him chuckle bitterly. All those times he acted really sick for drugs, when he'd made people believe he had cancer when he didn't just to relieve the pain in his leg. _I deserve this._

He was too tired to hold himself upright any longer, and he fell onto his side and stared at the wall until he passed out.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

"Are you feeling better? Ready to get out of here? I've put you on clinic duty all day Friday to make up for the time you took off," Cuddy said with a smile as she walked into House's room the next morning. He was sitting upright in bed, staring bitterly at the crap food the cafeteria brought up for breakfast.

"This isn't oatmeal." He lifted his spoon and watched the oatmeal drip into the bowl. "It's more like diarrhea from a cat in liver failure."

He watched Cuddy from the corner of his eye. She wasn't acting differently, and she certainly would've brought up the cancer if she'd known. So far, his plan was working. He just wanted to get out of the hospital today and go home.

"Your fever has gone down, and you're eating. I'm going to have the nurse give you another dose of antibiotics and then you're free to go."

"I need clothes." He looked up at her and tried to look guilty. "I forgot to bring some yesterday."

"I'm sure either Wilson can stop at your place on his way here, or we can find some pants that fit." Cuddy raised her eyebrows at him, daring him to argue. When he said nothing, she said, "House, don't let yourself get this sick again before you get treated."

"Did I worry you?" He asked mockingly.

She smiled. "How are you getting home?"

"Walk?" He suggested, and at her exasperated sigh he said, "taxi? Bus? Hitchhike? Just find me some pants. I'll figure it out." He watched her nod and walk toward the door to leave. "Cuddy? Don't call Wilson. He thinks I should stay longer and I'm not up for a pissing contest right now." Cuddy's eyes narrowed suspiciously, but she nodded and left. He let out a long sigh and waited for her to get back with his prescriptions and pants.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

After what felt like days, but was only an hour and a half, House was released and sitting on the couch in his apartment. He stared at the TV, which was on but muted, and held his new bottle of Vicodin that Cuddy gave to him. For the umpteenth time he wondered if he would die if he took the entire bottle.

He leaned forward and dumped the pills out onto the table top. He counted all 30, and glanced at the bottle of whiskey that he'd opened when he sat down. It was taunting him, and his hands clenched into fists while his mind raced_. Just take the damn pills with the liquor. Lay down in bed. Get it over with._

"You're a fool," he whispered to himself and shook his head. "It's _easily _treatable."

He continued to stare at the contents on the table though, unable to look away. He'd seen so many cancer patients over the years, and what some of them were reduced to. It was such an unappealing thought.

Pounding on his door startled him upright, and he cursed himself for being so jumpy.

"I know you're in there!" Wilson called through the door, and pounded even harder.

"You have a key!" House called back and shakily stood up, gripping his cane. Wilson was pissed, and House was tired, and neither of them was ready for this conversation. He limped to the kitchen as keys rattled in the door, and he had the fridge open when Wilson opened the door.

Wilson stopped in the doorway and looked from House to the coffee table, and he slammed the door shut.

"How many did you take?" He demanded, pointing at the pills on the table as he stepped into the living room. He kept his eyes glued to House, who rolled his eyes up, thinking.

"You came in before I could take the second bottle."

"The second bottle." Wilson's voice was flat. His shoulders slumped as he let out a breath. "Cuddy only wrote you one script. House, what in the _hell _is going on in your head? Why are you here?"

House closed the fridge with his cane, holding a beer in his left hand. He looked around the room, dumbfounded. "I live here, Wilson."

"You need to get back to Princeton, and start chemo." Wilson raised his hands and locked his fingers behind his head, breathing deeply.

"Nope," House said with a grin, and limped back into the living room. He sat down on the couch and picked up two white pills and studied them briefly before swallowing them. He picked up the remote and unmuted the TV, and sat back to watch the show. Well, to _pretend _to watch it, anyway.

Wilson came around the couch and shut off the TV. He spun around and crossed his arms expectantly. "Nope? You can't just not get treated for this, House. You need to take care of this, and the sooner the better."

"Well, see, I _can _just not get treated. That's the beauty of being an adult. I'm going to take care of the flu, and go back to work." House leaned around Wilson and turned the TV back on.

"You'll just get worse. And you'll get sick more often. If you let it go much longer, you could die with the next cold you get. I don't know what you're trying to prove with all of this, House, but it's childish. You can't mess around with cancer. This isn't a bad Christmas gift that you toss into the closet and not look at again!"

"You're blocking the TV." House glanced up at Wilson and watched as he pulled the plug from the wall. He sighed and dropped the remote onto the table. "I'm not getting treatment, Wilson. I appreciate your concern, but this is my choice."

"Why? Why won't you try? If I were the one with cancer and I sat there denying treatment, what would you say?"

"I'd say that it was your choice and I would accept it," House said with a shrug. Truthfully, if Wilson were dying of cancer, he'd be a wreck and would do everything in his power to force treatment on him.

Wilson sighed and sat down on the couch beside House and put his head in his hands. He rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands before sitting back against the couch. He looked over at House, who was staring back at him, his hands pressed tightly on the top of his knees.

He reached in his pocket and fished out a business card. "This is an oncologist at the Cancer Institute that I refer patients to. He's a good guy, and you'll probably get along with him much better than you get along with me or anyone else. Just call him up and tell him I referred you."

"I'm not doing this," House reiterated. "I'm going to sit here and enjoy my day off, and then I'm going to go to work tomorrow, and the day after that, and the day after that. The test results are wrong."

"The test results aren't wrong. I ran the tests twice. We can test your bone marrow if you don't believe it. And whether you believe the results or not, you still have cancer. And you'll still need treatment. Are you going to go to work day after day and wait until you're so sick that you down a bottle of Vicodin and end it?" Wilson shook his head and put the card on the coffee table. "I can't do that, House. I can't sit around and watch another person I love die."

"This isn't about you. You may leave me now. I'm glad you got to see me today."

Wilson stared at him in disbelief before standing up. "Oh, yeah, thank you _so much_ for gracing me with your presence."

"You barged in on me, Wilson. Don't get snippy with me." House closed his mouth and kept silent as Wilson rubbed his eyes again, then stood up.

"I hate you. You're selfish and childish."

"And stupid!" House added sarcastically, and winced as Wilson slammed the door shut behind him.


	4. Chapter 4

House tucked his helmet under his arm and grabbed his cane before making his way into the hospital the next morning. He was tired, weak and feverish still, but he felt better. After a long night of tossing about and waking up from nightmares drenched in sweat, he decided that regardless of his illness, he _had _to go to work. If he stayed home alone, he really would kill himself, and not to avoid a drawn out cancer death. He'd be bored out of his mind.

He glanced up momentarily when he walked into the hospital and lowered his eyes and quickened his pace when he saw Cuddy and Wilson with their heads bent over a folder. They both looked up at him and he looked back down without slowing his step. He half expected Cuddy to yell at him in front of everyone - if Wilson was telling her about his diagnosis - and when neither of them approached him he felt let down.

"Nothing?" He asked, turning to them. He raised his right arm in a sweeping gesture. Cuddy and Wilson glanced up again, and both wore identical confused looks. Wilson seemed a little ticked off, though.

"You've only been gone for four days, and a day was still spent here. Do you need a parade?" Cuddy asked, then whispered something to Wilson before they broke apart. House watched Wilson cross the entrance into the clinic, and Cuddy approached him.

"What's his problem?" House asked with a nod in the direction of the clinic. He pushed the button on the elevator.

"He's upset about one of his patients," she answered with a wave of her hand, dismissing the topic. "You have a few cases open. Your kids have been doing a good job while you were gone. You should congratulate them."

"When hell freezes over." House grinned and stepped into the elevator. Cuddy rolled her eyes and turned her back as the doors shut. He sagged against the wall and closed his eyes momentarily, scratching his forehead absently.

He made it to his office without being stopped, and carefully set his helmet on his desk. The doctors were sitting around the desk in the connecting room, watching him silently. He paused to stare at them with the zipper on his jacket halfway down, and when they all four turned their attention back to their folders, he took his iPod out of his pocket and sank down in his desk chair. He put the earphones in his ears and hit play, then rested his head on the back of the chair with his eyes closed. The ride from home to work and the walk to his office exhausted him, and he wanted to be back home in his own bed to sleep. He smirked at himself - if he were home, he wouldn't be sleeping and he'd wish he were here.

Briefly, he opened one of his eyes to check his watch, and closed it again when he saw all four of his doctors standing in front of his desk.

"I'm working," he said, but took one of the earphones out of his ear and looked up at them.

"We have this case that we can't figure out," Taub said, handing a folder across the desk to House. Silently grateful that nobody, so far, had asked how he was feeling, he took the folder and started rifling through it.

"Sezary Syndrome." House handed the folder back to them and lifted his legs onto his desk to relax. He put the earphone back in his ear and closed his eyes, dismissing the doctors without another word.

Some time later, he opened his eyes and found both rooms empty. He checked his watch and was happy to see that he'd dozed for an hour, anyway. His right thigh was aching and he lowered his feet to the floor carefully, then reached in his pocket for his Vicodin. He pulled the earphones from his ears and turned off the iPod, then got to his feet. His body hurt because of the shivering from his fever and the last thing he wanted to do was walk around, but he had nothing to do and didn't want to go home.

He walked out onto the balcony that connected to Wilson's office and put his hands on the wall, staring out into the distance.

_I need to start treatment_. He told himself, starting to come to terms with his diagnosis. _I need to stop being stupid about this_.

As if on cue, the door to Wilson's office opened and closed, and Wilson came to stand beside him. They were silent for a long time, not looking at each other and keeping their eyes forward. House almost picked up his cane and walked back inside a number of times, not quite sure what to say to Wilson. Apologizing was out of the question; he didn't do anything that deserved an apology. Still, guilt chewed at his conscience for how he'd behaved the day before.

"When Amber died, I wished it had been you instead," Wilson said, breaking the silence. House glanced at him but said nothing. "And then over the months the pain was easier to deal with. I pushed you away. Watching you self destruct, knowing you'd never die of old age or natural causes, it killed me. It killed me because it wasn't fair that someone who was so full of life died instead of someone who obviously didn't care one way or another if they were here or not.

"But that's just how you are. No matter how much I wanted to hate you for what happened, I couldn't. You are needed here, whether you want to be or not. Lives depend on you every day. Without you, so many more families would be ripped apart. I came to terms with the fact that between you and Amber, you needed to be here for sick and dying patients, and she didn't.

"And now you're just giving me another reason to hate you. Another reason why I should've kept you away for good. You can die, and you aren't willing to face that fact or get treatment for it. I can't survive another death, not this soon, House."

House glanced at his friend sideways again, then let out a small sigh. Quietly, he said, "you're all I have, Wilson. I don't have friends, or a spouse, or _anyone_. The decision to not get treatment isn't to hurt you. You're better off without me."

"Patients aren't better off without you. Without you, they're just as dead as you'll be."

Silence lapsed over them again. Wilson stuck his hands in his pockets, and House leaned his forearms on the wall and closed his eyes. He thought long about what Wilson said, and as much as he wanted to be angry about it, or hurt, he knew Wilson was right.

"You said you loved me yesterday," House said and put his chin in his hand and stared hard at the distance, hiding a smile.

"We've been friends too long for me _not _to love you in some way," Wilson's voice was quiet, as if he were stopping a smile himself.

"You know that's kind of...gay, right?" House turned his head away and tried to steady himself. "You know I don't do dudes. Sorry to disappoint."

"You don't do _anyone_." Wilson chuckled to himself when House gave him a dirty look and flipped him off.

They lapsed into another silence, though a little more comfortable than just a minute before. House drummed his fingers on his lips, and Wilson moved from one foot to another nervously. House closed his eyes and scratched his forehead.

"I'll do treatment." He glanced up at Wilson after he said it, mainly to see his reaction.

Wilson looked up and met his eyes, then let out a relieved sigh. The emotion in his eyes tore at House's heart, but he didn't show any sign of it. Instead, he picked up his cane and started to the door. One of them had to be strong through this, so it might as well be him.

"I expect you to be ready tomorrow morning," House said over his shoulder, pulling the door open.

"Make sure you eat light." Wilson's voice was full of relief, and for the first time in a long while, House felt good about himself. He did something to make someone else feel better.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

House walked into Cuddy's office. She barely looked up at him before he said, "I have cancer and I'm starting treatment tomorrow. I'm going to work through chemo, so you don't need to worry about finding a replacement."

Cuddy stared at him in disbelief before answering with, "if you're trying to get out of clinic tomorrow, this isn't working."

House grimaced. Nobody was going to believe him at first. _I brought this on myself_ he thought, then sat down in a chair in front of her desk.

"I'm not lying this time Lisa," he muttered, scratching his forehead nervously. He raised his eyes to hers, almost pleadingly. "Wilson tested me when I came in the other day. He's going to treat me. I don't want the others to know, but you had to know since you're my boss."

"Okay," she nodded and took a deep breath, blinking back tears. "What kind do you have?"

"AML."

"Okay. We'll get through this," she said sympathetically, and rose from her chair to come around the desk. He stood from his chair too, unsure of what to do from here. His plan had involved a lot of yelling and rude comments, but he was at a loss now that it wasn't happening.

"You aren't going to hug me, are you?" He asked sarcastically, but didn't resist when she pulled him into her arms. She held him only a moment, then rubbed his back and pulled away. "Can I get a kiss?" He raised his eyebrows, and when she kissed his cheek, he grinned.

"You don't need to work during treatment, House. I'll make some calls and have someone fill in for you for a month," Cuddy said and moved back to the other side of her desk and reached for the phone. House put his cane up and rested it on the phone to stop her.

"Then everyone will know something's wrong with me. Nobody needs to know. Nobody wants a dying doctor to treat them, they won't take me seriously if they know." House moved his cane and leaned on it for support. He was getting tired again.

Cuddy gave him a small smile. "What are you going to do if you lose all of your hair? People will know something's wrong then."

"I have hats. I've got this under control, Cuddy. Don't worry about me."

"I always worry about you House." She smiled again, then waved her hands to the door to dismiss him. "Get back to work then. And quit sleeping in your office. If you're tired, go home."

"And miss all of the fun here?" House pulled the door open and walked back into the main entrance of the hospital.

_So. I'm really doing it._ He thought as he cut across the room toward the elevator. Nobody glanced at him, and he wondered what looks he'd get if they knew he had cancer. He shook his head and dismissed the thought. They wouldn't find out. Nobody but Wilson and Cuddy.


	5. Chapter 5

Disclaimer: I don't own anybody in this story.

Author's note: Thanks so much for the reviews and all of you who added this to an update alert. This is my first House fic, so I apologize if people are a bit OOC. I'm trying!

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

House sat in Wilson's office early the next morning, bouncing his legs nervously. Wilson had left minutes before to get the results from blood he'd drawn when House arrived at the hospital at almost 6 AM. Wilson had explained that they'll draw blood every morning before treatment so they could determine if he was getting better or worse.

The night before had been one of the worst nights of his life. He barely slept, and when he did it was lucid. His mind wouldn't stop running, and he got up half a dozen times to call Wilson and tell him to forget everything. Every time he had his phone in his hands, he talked himself into chemo and laid back down. Over and over thoughts ran through his head about what would happen if he didn't get better. He even thought of what possessions of his would go to whom, leaving Wilson with most of it.

At 4 AM he got up and forced himself to eat a piece of toast and got on his bike. He drove around for an hour, enjoying the quiet of the town, not feeling the cold morning. And at 5:30, he was wandering the halls of the hospital, and found himself in the oncology ward, staring through windows at dying cancer patients. Few were awake, but the ones that were glanced at him then turned away. Every one of them _looked _sick, and were bald or had a light fuzz on their heads. Some had scarves covering their heads to keep body warmth. It was disappointing, in a way, that they were spending their last days in the hospital and not at home at least. Many of the patients were alone in their rooms.

"Are you here to scare yourself out of treatment?" Wilson asked softly from House's elbow, startling him.

"What's wrong with her?" House kept his eyes locked on a woman who was younger than he was. She would've been pretty if she weren't so gaunt.

"Pancreatic cancer," Wilson answered, his voice full of sorrow. House turned away from the room and faced Wilson expectantly. "Let's go to my office."

House stared around Wilson's office, memorizing as much as he could. The pictures, articles and awards that he proudly placed in noticeable areas of the room, none of which House had ever looked at, he thought grimly. If he was going to go through this and die at the end, he wanted to know that he'd at least spent his time doing something productive, like figuring out how much of a nerd Wilson really was.

"Ready?" Wilson asked, poking his head into the room. He had his doctor look on his face, all seriousness and confidence, and House was glad for it. If he saw worry, or sadness, he'd snap.

The two walked down the hallway to a secluded room with a few recliners and one other patient. Only Wilson spoke, explaining what he was doing, though it was unnecessary. House was a doctor, he knew what was going on. But the talking helped with his nerves, and he stayed quiet and just listened.

Wilson knelt down beside his friend, who was staring up at the IV bags and the tube that ran into his arm. "Do you want me to stay?"

"I'm a big boy," House said with a glare, though he had a cold knot in his stomach. He swallowed back his fear and managed to keep his voice steady when he said, "don't worry. I know what's going on, and I can call the nurse if something's wrong."

Wilson nodded and looked over everything again before taking a step back. His doctor face was slipping, and House averted his eyes before he saw the anguish in his eyes. He pulled out his iPod and stuck in the earphones before he closed his eyes and did his best to concentrate on the music and desperately tried to think of something other than the fact that he was officially a cancer patient.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

An hour later, House sat on the floor in the men's room, vomiting everything he'd ever consumed. His leg screamed in pain, but all he could do was try to keep his weight on his left leg while he threw up. He was unaware of the door opening until Wilson asked, "House?" from the other side of the stall door.

"Just give me a minute. I think someone at the bar slipped me something." House heaved again, bile and water burning his throat.

After another few minutes of throwing up until nothing was left in his stomach, he flushed the toilet and shakily stood up. He winced as his leg protested, but he fought past the ache and walked out of the stall. He was relieved to see Wilson had stepped out of the bathroom, but not before leaving a disposable tooth brush and a tube of hospital brand tooth paste on the sink. He splashed cool water on his face and brushed his teeth, silently thanking Wilson for thinking of the toiletries.

In the hallway, Wilson was standing in front of a window that showed the parking lot, his arms folded and lost in thought. He glanced up when he saw House and smiled.

"Feeling better? I can give you something for the nausea," Wilson offered and started walking beside House toward the elevators.

"I've never been better."

"Good. Here," Wilson said as he reached in his pocket and pulled out a paper face mask. "If you're going to work _with _patients, you should wear this. And if you can avoid it, don't go into the clinic at all. You don't want to get sick right now."

"I'm _already _sick." House pushed the button on the elevator to go down.

Wilson pressed the mask into House's empty hand. "Just take it anyway. You should go rest a little while before you start working. You can go to the on call room."

"I have a perfectly comfortable chair and ottoman in my office," House said, getting into the elevator and pressing the button for his floor. "Lunch today? Noon?"

Wilson smiled. "I'll meet you in your office at noon. I don't know if you'll want to eat, but I won't discourage you if you are hungry."

House nodded as the doors closed, and he let out a heavy sigh. His muscles ached and he was exhausted, but the last thing he was going to do was let anyone see how tired he was.

The floor was bustling with nurses and patients when House stepped off the elevator. He forced himself forward to his office, swallowing back bile. He needed to sit down, and take a Vicodin, and get to work. If he _had _to, he'd call Wilson and get the anti-nausea meds he'd mentioned. But only if he needed to.

In his office, he drew the blinds closed on the window and shut off the lights. A headache was building between his eyes and he didn't want to encourage it with the room lit up. He took a couple of Vicodin and sat down in his armchair and looked through the glass wall into the connecting room. Thirteen was the only one there, rifling through patient files. He dug into his pocket and pulled out a penny and tossed it at the closed door to get her attention. She looked up and he waved her in.

"Where are the others?" He asked when she opened the door.

"Checking on all of the other patients. Taub is picking up new cases in Cuddy's office." She waited expectantly for him to say more, and when he didn't, she turned to go back to the desk.

"Wait." House sat up straighter and rubbed his thigh absentmindedly. Thirteen stopped and turned around with her eyebrows raised. "How are you...feeling?" He asked, forcing himself to keep his tone polite. She was dying, too, even if she didn't know that _he _was sick, and he needed someone to talk to.

Her eyes widened in surprise before she folded her arms, closing herself off from him. "I'm feeling fine."

House nodded and sat back in the chair. He didn't know what else to say. She was as screwed up as he was, and he didn't know how to interact with her. She didn't say anything more, just returned to her chair at the desk and got back to work. House watched her for another minute, taking in her movements, trying to find evidence that her disease was getting worse. He didn't see anything.

The lack of sleep from the last two nights caught up with him and he dozed off.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

The phone on his desk rang and House startled awake. He rubbed his eyes and saw that someone had come in and closed all of the blinds in the room. Whoever shut the blinds also put a thin blanket on top of him. He grimaced and pushed himself up to answer the phone, his body stiff from sleeping upright.

"House," he answered, licking his dry lips. He looked at his watch and saw that it was almost noon.

"Are you hungry?" Wilson asked on the other end.

"No. I've got patients to check on." House yawned and leaned against his desk warily.

"Are you feeling worse? Better? Tired? Headaches?"

"Never been better, doc," House answered with another yawn. "Wanna have lunch in my office?"

Wilson was silent for a moment before saying, "I thought you had patients to check on? And House, if you start feeling weird, you need to tell me. There are a ton of side effects with chemotherapy, but I want to monitor them anyway. With your drug use, I need to know if something starts going wrong."

"I feel like shit," House said and massage the bridge of his nose. "Can you get me some coffee and meet me in my office when you get a chance? I have patients to check on but it won't take me long."

"Feeling like shit is one answer I guess. I'll be there in a few minutes. Do you mind if I eat around you?"

"I don't care." House hung up before he had to say anything more, and picked up the phone and dialed his team's pager numbers.

Less than a minute later, the four doctors rushed into the room, all slightly panicked. House stared at them a moment before moving around his desk to sit in the chair.

"What's going on?" Foreman asked, crossing his arms. "There _better _be an emergency."

"Or else you'll fire me?" House raised his eyebrows and put his feet up on his desk and leaned back. He still had a dull ache between his eyes from hours before.

"Or else I'll tell Cuddy you spent the last two and a half hours sleeping instead of working," Foreman answered defiantly.

House smirked. "Do you _really _think that'll get me in trouble?"

Before Foreman could answer, Taub cut in and said, "is there a reason you called us in here?"

"Yes. Could one of you _please _get me a syringe of morphine? An aspirin would be good, too," he amended at the looks he got from the doctors. "And I need some water. My mouth tastes bad." He pulled a face at them, tasting his mouth. "And the other two of you fill me in on what I've missed."

Foreman and Kutner sat down immediately, leaving Thirteen and Taub to get aspirin and water. Once the door shut behind them, House leaned forward and said in a loud whisper, "good plan making Thirteen go and do the errands, Foreman. Maybe if she exercises more, she won't twitch as much."

"You're such a jackass," Foreman snapped and almost stood up before House put his hands up.

"Cases. Quick. I have a lunch date."

Very quickly Thirteen and Taub returned and House downed the entire bottle of water with three aspirin and a Vicodin, and he heard every boring case the doctors were working on. He pushed them into the right direction for diagnosis on some of the harder cases, then dismissed them when there was a knock on the door.

"Do I look all right?" He asked, running his hands through his hair as if to fix it. He was relieved when no clumps of hair came out in his hands.

The doctors filed out of the room and Wilson waited until they left before entering. He looked around the dark room and put the coffee on the desk in front of House, and a bag of food in front of the chair across from him.

"Why is it so dark in here?" He asked, opening the bag. The smell of his hamburger curdled House's stomach.

"I have a headache." House leaned back casually, sipping on his coffee to get the smell of the food away from him.

"I see the blanket. Did you take a nap?" Wilson nodded toward the armchair and took a bite of his burger. House closed his eyes and inhaled through his mouth.

"Yes. Your call woke me up," House stood up to walk to the other side of the room, to get away from the smell, and he stopped. He closed his eyes and swallowed thickly before saying, "Wilson?"

The world started spinning and he fell to his knees, only half aware of the pain that shot through his right leg. He bent over and felt his trashcan being moved under his face seconds before he started throwing up again. He tried to keep it down, but the smell of Wilson's lunch made his stomach clench and he vomitted more. He could hear doors and his window opening, but he didn't dare move or look up until he was positive he wouldn't get sick again. A napkin was in his hand before he even thought to ask, and he wiped his mouth gratefully. He glanced up, sitting back on his heels and watched Thirteen grab the trashcan and walk out of the room with it. The room was cooler, and he realized the window was open. Wilson was crumbling up his paper bag, staring down at House sympathetically.

"I knew you'd get sick," was all he said, and House glared at him. "Have you been drinking any water?"

"All of the water I've had today is in that trashcan."

House stood up shakily and sat back down in his chair. At least he couldn't smell the hamburger anymore.

"Do yourself a favor and go home. Tomorrow will be easier," Wilson said, and he picked up the coffee cup and made his way toward the door.

"I'm needed here today. What time are you going home?" House asked, running a shaky hand across his forehead. He was sweating again.

"Early. Three. Why?" Wilson paused at the doorway. House knew he was trying to maintain some normalcy, especially where prying eyes and eavesdroppers would know something was up. But House was a _little _uncomfortable, and nervous, and he wanted Wilson with him to talk him through this.

"Can I get a ride?" House tried to force a charming smile onto his face, but he couldn't do it. It was more of a grimace.

"Of course. Want to stop and get dinner?" Wilson grinned before saying, "I'm kidding. I'll see you at three."

House put his head on top of his arms on his desk after Wilson left and sighed. _Maybe I should stay home_ he thought dejectedly. _Cuddy won't pay me to sleep and throw up all day, and everyone else will notice something's not right_.

He raised his head when Thirteen came back into the room with a new trashcan and a pink bucket in her other hand. Inside the bucket was a new water bottle. He grabbed it and rinsed out his mouth, spitting the water into the pink bucket. He took a few sips of water to ease the burn in his throat and looked up at her.

"Thanks," he said quietly, and took another sip.

"If you're sick, go home. We can call you if we need you." She waited until he nodded before she left the room. He drummed his fingers on his desk, debating his options, then took another Vicodin and stood up.


	6. Chapter 6

Disclaimer: I don't own anybody in this story.

Author's note: Thanks so much for the reviews. They're what keep me writing one chapter a day! I've currently written up to 12 chapters for this story, and there will be a few more after that for sure..I hope you guys enjoy reading it as much as I like writing it :)

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Instead of going home, House paced the length of the connecting room while his doctors tossed ideas back and forth about a fifteen year old male patient. He listened more than anything, giving them clues and hints along the way, but his heart wasn't into it. Pacing was exhausting him, but if he sat down he might fall asleep. So he paced.

After pacing, walking to the bathroom, and stopping in patients rooms briefly to check the progress of their treatments, House made his way to Cuddy's office. She was on the phone when he came in, and she held up a hand to keep him quiet before he started talking. He sat down on her couch and rested his head on the back cushion and closed his eyes, tuning out the discussion she was having. When she hung up, he opened his eyes and looked over at her.

"Did you have a nice nap?" She asked, a smile playing on her lips.

"Are you the one who put the blanket on me?" He retorted, and when she nodded, he winked. "You should've cuddled up with me."

"You can't fall asleep when you're supposed to be working, House. I can't pay you to sleep. If you feel well enough to work after chemo, I'm more than happy to have you here. But if you're too tired, go home." She stood up and walked around the desk and took a seat in her armchair beside the couch. She gave him a searching look. "How was your treatment?"

House lowered his head and clasped his hands together and flipped through answers in his mind before sighing and saying, "I don't know if I can go through this. It's only supposed to last a week. But what if it doesn't go away? Then we move on to other treatments that may or may not work. I've only gone one day and I'm too tired to sit or I'll pass out, or I'll get dizzy and nauseous if I stand too much."

Cuddy leaned forward and put her hand on top of his clasped hands, and he looked up at her. She smiled sympathetically, doing her best to keep strong in this rare moment of real emotion.

"It gets easier after the first couple of days. And if you want, you can come in for treatment and sleep in the on call room, or go home for a few hours, and I'll schedule you for early afternoon shifts. I can't imagine what you're going through, but I'll do everything I can to make things run as smoothly as possible."

House nodded and looked at his watch. He had an hour until Wilson was off.

"I'll take half of the day off tomorrow. I'll be here at 7 for chemo, and I'll start my shift at 2. If anyone needs me, I'll be in the on call room. I'll put in a few hours."

Cuddy smiled again. "Work will be good for you, even if it tires you out. Have you told any of the other doctors?"

"No. They don't need to know. They wouldn't feel bad and would probably use the opportunity to make my life hell." House smirked at the thought of Foreman having him paged and called every ten minutes, just to torment him.

"Have you told your mom?"

House looked up at her again. He narrowed his eyes slightly. "No. _She _doesn't need to know either. She would just drive herself crazy and drag me down with her. No, I don't need anyone else to know. It's bad enough you and Wilson know."

"Okay. I understand." Cuddy stood up and walked back to her desk, then glanced over her shoulder at him. "You can nap in here if you want, while you wait for Wilson."

"Nah. I'm not tired," he lied, walking toward the door to leave. "I'll be in my office if you need me in the next hour. Come over tonight if you get lonely." He blew her a kiss and left the room.

Part of him _did _want her to come over. He didn't want to spend another night alone, dealing with everything by himself.

"Damn not having friends," he muttered to himself and punched the button to go up in the elevator.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

"Get some sleep tonight. Try to eat, even if it's toast and bananas. You've probably lost at least five pounds in the last week," Wilson said as House struggled to get out of his car. "If you need anything, call me."

House shut the door without saying anything and went inside the building. He'd wanted Wilson to stay, but didn't have the courage to tell him as much. So instead he was sulking.

Once he got inside his apartment, he dropped his jacket on the back of the couch and sat down. He bent over and untied his shoes, then sat up and flipped on the TV. He yawned and sat back, toeing off his shoes. Alone again, his mind started to wander, as it often did lately, to suicide. It wasn't that he was depressed - he was _always _depressed. It was that if he spent the rest of his living days like this, he didn't want any part of it. And nobody was here to stop him.

He reached in his pocket and pulled out his Vicodin and opened the lid. He eyed the pills and was already running low. It wasn't enough to make him die. He shook out two and swallowed them and laid down, stifling a yawn. Within minutes he was fast asleep

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Wilson quietly unlocked the door and pushed it open. He put his keys in his coat pocket carefully and moved inside House's apartment. He saw House stretched out on the couch with his forearm over his eyes, the TV turned on and the volume moderately low. He paused long enough to see the steady rise and fall of his friend's chest, then went into the kitchen. He put two grocery bags down on the counter and quietly snuck to the bedroom to drop off a small duffel bag that he had on his shoulder.

After he'd dropped House off, he went back home to get clean clothes, change into comfortable clothes and to eat. The look on House's face when he got out of the car had made Wilson feel bad. House might not be a very _nice _friend, but he was his friend no matter what. If Wilson were dying, he'd want to be with friends and family, and not alone.

_He's not dying_. He reminded himself, grimacing at the thought.

So he stopped at the store again to buy bread, jelly, bananas, and more water bottles. House wasn't going to take care of himself if left to his own devices, and Wilson couldn't watch him suffer alone.

And here he was, sneaking around his best friend's apartment while he slept, hanging up clothes for the next day at work. He was going to stay the night if he had to, so the clothes were just in case.

He reached up into the closet and pulled two blankets off of the top shelf. He kicked off his shoes and quietly padded back to the living room. House hadn't moved an inch. As carefully as he could, Wilson spread the warmer blanket on House, grabbed the remote, then sat down in the recliner with his blanket. It was only 6, and he was far from tired, so he settled down to spend the next few hours watching TV.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Quiet chuckling was the first thing House was aware of when he startled awake an hour later. The second thing he noticed was the blanket on top of him, which might have accounted for the sweat that seemed to be pouring down his body. He didn't need to look over to know Wilson was there, and he smiled to himself. Wilson was always there when he needed him, and even if he didn't _know _he needed him.

"Are you trying to add breaking and entering to your criminal record?" He asked, sitting up slowly. He brushed the blanket off his body and was grateful for the cooler air against his skin.

The TV was muted and Wilson turned to him. "I didn't mean to wake you up. I can leave if you want to go back to bed."

House waved his concerns off and got up to go to the bathroom. He reached down to the table and picked up his Vicodin and shuffled to the toilet, not bothering to close the door.

"I'm going to make you something to eat," Wilson said, getting off the recliner and moving to the kitchen. House's stomach lurched at the thought of eating, but he said nothing. The last thing he wanted was to show how sick he was, especially after the scene in his office during lunch.

When he got back to the living room, he smelled toast. He closed his eyes, breathing against the nausea, and made himself walk toward his piano. He sat down and placed his fingers gingerly on the keys, and started playing. Music always took his mind off of things, and the smell of toast was the first thing he didn't want to think about.

Wilson sat back down on the recliner, placing a plate of toast on the table with a banana and water. House looked up at him and stopped playing.

"I'm really not hungry."

"I know. But you need to eat anyway, even if you get sick from it. It's been almost 12 hours since your treatment, you should be able to keep it down now." Wilson pushed the plate encouragingly toward House, and he sighed in resignation. He sat down and stared at the food for a full minute before picking up the bread and taking a bite. His stomach rolled, but he swallowed it and felt better. He managed to eat half of the toast before he put it down and picked up the water to wash the taste out of his mouth.

"That's all I can eat."

Wilson smiled at him and sat back. "That's fine. I'll leave it there in case you want to munch more. Do you want a beer? Maybe it'll stimulate more of an appetite."

"Not now. Maybe later on. What are you doing here?" He studied Wilson's reaction, though there wasn't much of one. Just an embarrassed laugh.

"I thought you'd want some company. Nobody wants to go through these things alone."

House nodded and turned his attention to the TV. "I don't mind going through it alone. If you have other things to do, I won't stop you."

"Do you _want _to go through this alone?" Wilson asked incredulously. He stood up and walked to the other side of House and sat beside him on the couch. "I don't mind being here, even if we sit here and do nothing. I'm..worried about you."

House laughed. "Why would you be worried about me? Am I sicker than you let on?" He glanced at his friend from the corner of his eye, his mind racing. _Would he hold back just to make sure I don't do something stupid?_

"Nothing like that," Wilson answered quickly, then frowned. "I'm used to all kinds of reactions from patients when I tell them they have cancer, House. Most of the patients cry. Many demand a re-test, or a second opinion and I never see them again. Very few don't react at all."

"I reacted, in case you missed it. I yelled at you, and made you leave the room. I said I didn't want treatment."

Wilson shook his head slightly. "That's _you _though. I didn't expect you to do a complete 180 and fall apart, but you aren't acting any differently. I don't know. I'm just not used to it. I'm not used to the jokes in between heaves in the bathroom. I'm not used to anyone wanting to be alone during treatment."

"This is who I am. Are you actually complaining that I'm handling this too well?" House stared at Wilson in surprise.

Wilson was silent for a moment, piecing together what he wanted to say. Finally, he said, "I'm worried that you are either a- not handling it at all, and just putting it to the back of your mind, which isn't right, or b- you're thinking of doing something stupid, and trying hard to maintain a calm exterior."

"Should I break down and cry on your shoulder? Should I confess how terrified I am that I may die? I don't _need _to do those things because I don't feel that way. I have nothing to live for, Wilson. I'm not married, I don't have kids, and you're the only friend I have. I have no reason to be sad or scared. I'm fine."

"You could have those things. I think Cuddy is your friend. And if you tried, Cameron -"

"Enough. We're not talking about this." House turned his attention back to the TV and picked up his water bottle.

They sat in silence after that, neither one focusing much on the sitcom that was on. House's mind was racing, the words Wilson said repeating. _You're thinking of doing something stupid_. _You could have those things. _Wilson tried hard to think of something -_ anything ­_- to say to keep House talking, but he came up blank.

The rest of the night was spent in uneasy, short conversations. House ate half of his banana, finished his water, and went to bed before 9. Wilson stretched out on the couch with the lights and TV off. Neither of them fell asleep easily.


	7. Chapter 7

Disclaimer: I don't own anybody in this story except "Laura". Don't worry, she isn't really part of the plot.

Author's note: Thanks so much for the reviews and all of you who added this to an update alert. This is my first House fic, so I apologize if people are a bit OOC. I'm trying!

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Wilson gave House a ride to the hospital in the morning since House left his motorcycle at work the day before. They walked silently into the building after spending most of the morning in silence. House's reason for the silence was he was nervous again, despite knowing what was in store for him today. Wilson was scared for House's mental health, and didn't know what to say or do.

After Wilson drew House's blood, House strolled the quiet halls of the oncology ward. He found himself in front of the woman's room he'd stopped at the day before, and was pleased to see she was awake. He knocked on her door, unaware of what he was going to say or do. He just needed a distraction. When she turned her eyes to him, he entered.

"Are you dying?" He asked bluntly, leaning his cane against the bed and sitting in a chair beside her. Before she could answer, he said, "why do you want to die in here?"

Stunned, the woman stumbled over what to say. "I don't know you. What do you care what I'm doing here?"

"I've seen plenty of cancer patients, but I never come to this ward because they are all so depressing and boring. The patients in comas are better company," House reached up and squeezed the IV bag hanging beside her bed. "But _you_. I noticed you yesterday. You are young, female and white, which should've stopped pancreatic cancer from affecting you to begin with. But somehow, you beat the odds and got it. Because you're young, you caught my attention, particularly because you're alone. Why?"

She gaped at him, obviously surprised at his observations and behavior.

"Why am I alone?" She asked finally, swallowing nervously. House reached over and grabbed a cup of water from her table and handed it to her. She took a sip and stared at him for a long moment before answering. "I was dumped right before I was diagnosed. My dad died of pancreatic cancer when I was 10, and my mom and I don't have a close relationship." She took another sip of water, then handed the cup back to House, who put it on the table. "Why are you alone? You're obviously a first timer."

"What makes you think I'm a patient?" He raised his eyebrows in an innocent gesture.

"You said you never come to the Oncology ward. I saw you walk away yesterday with Dr. Wilson. Two and two. And you're obviously a first timer because you don't have the sunken face, and you have your hair."

"Wrong. I'm a doctor here and Dr. Wilson wanted a consult."

"Please. I'm dying but not stupid. You may be a doctor, but not in this ward. You have a visitor," she nodded to the hallway, and House turned to see Wilson watching them with his arms folded and a blank face.

"I think I made him angry," House whispered and stood up. "He worries that I insult people too much. He should probably get me a leash."

He heard her chuckle softly as he walked out of the room. He fought against a smile of his own, though he wasn't entirely sure why he should smile.

"What did you say to her?" Wilson asked in a hushed, heated tone. House looked at him in mock surprise. "Don't give me that look, House. I know you, and you aren't very nice to people. What did you say?"

"I wasn't mean. We had a pleasant chat. If you didn't take so long on the toilet, I wouldn't have wandered around trying to entertain myself."

Wilson grabbed his arm to stop him from walking and nodded to the room House had just come from. House glanced back and watched the woman wipe her eyes with the back of her hand, her head hanging.

"You made her cry. What a surprise," Wilson sighed and started toward the treatment room. "I'm going to go talk to Laura. I pray you didn't tell her you're a doctor here because the last thing we need is to be sued for mental anguish. Just sign in with the nurse when you get there, and she'll get you squared away."

"She doesn't know my name yet!" House called after him and mentally kicked himself. So much for playing nice.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Today, House didn't make it to the end of treatment before he was vomiting into a pink bucket, placed in his lap, while a nurse pressed a cool towel to the back of his neck. The chemo wasn't done yet, and he had another 15 minutes before he could get out of the chair and pass out on the men's room floor beside the toilet.

When there couldn't possibly be anymore in his stomach to throw up, he pushed the bucket to the nurse and put his head in his hands. His head was aching again, and he was feeling hot. His iPod was on the floor, forgotten. Thankfully he was alone this morning, because the last thing he wanted was to throw up in front of other people, and know they saw the tears that ran down his face from the force of the retching.

"You're lucky. Laura wasn't crying because of you," Wilson said, entering the room with the nurse, who carried a clean bucket and a cup of water. House looked up at him through his fingers.

"Who the hell is Laura?" He asked, closing his eyes and taking a shaky breath. He reached out for the bucket blindly, and dropped his head over it in case he threw up again.

"The dying girl you talked to this morning." Wilson sat down in an empty recliner beside him and very gently rubbed House's arm in an effort for comfort. House coughed into the bucket and spit up bile.

"I don't know what you're talking about," he mumbled and wiped tears off of his face.

Wilson moved and crouched in front of House, his eyes serious. "Don't play with me right now, House. Do you remember the dying woman that you talked to before you came in here?"

House swished water in his mouth and spit it into the bucket, then dumped the rest of the water down his throat to ease the burn. He opened his eyes momentarily to stare at Wilson, angrily. "I don't know what you're talking about. I didn't talk to her. Either get me more water, or get out of here." He leaned over the bucket again and heaved, but thankfully, nothing came up. Wilson touched House's forehead for a moment before mumbling something to himself and leaving.

Less than a minute later, Wilson came in with a pitcher of ice cold water. He poured some in the cup, then sat down in the recliner and faced House while he drank the water.

"You're having memory problems. It's completely normal during chemo, but I want to monitor you for the next few days to be sure it doesn't get worse. I don't want you driving. I'll drive you around, and Cuddy will help if you tell her what's going on."

"No," House shook his head. "I'm not forgetting anything. I'm just tired. I just want to go lay down and sleep for a few hours."

"Do you remember what you said to Laura? The woman with pancreatic cancer?"

"If you ask me that again, I'll punch you in the nose," House muttered and put his head back. "Just go."

Wilson pursed his lips, but wisely stayed quiet. He patted House on the shoulder gently, then left the room.

Instead of going to the on-call room after treatment, House went to his office and grabbed his motorcycle helmet. He felt somewhat better, and if he could avoid Cuddy or anyone else who would rat him out to Wilson, he'd be out of here in two minutes and in his own bed in 15.

On his way out of the hospital, he spotted Cameron with a patient in the clinic, and he turned his head to avoid catching her eye. The _last _person he needed to talk to was her. She'd rat him out so fast, especially if Wilson found him gone in a half an hour.

Relief flooded through him when he sat on his bike and put on his helmet. He ran his hands along the handles and kick-started the bike. Adrenaline coursed through him and he grinned to himself as he put the bike in first gear and smoothly pulled out of the parking garage.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Wilson was sitting at his desk, discussing with a patient her new treatment options when his phone rang. He glanced at the caller ID, and apologized to the woman when he saw the ER calling.

"Wilson," he answered and gave his patient an apologetic look.

"House is here," Cameron said through the line, and Wilson grimaced.

"Tell him to go to -"

"No. He was just brought in via ambulance."


	8. Chapter 8

Disclaimer: I don't own anybody in this story.

Author's note: Thanks so much for the reviews and all of you who added this to an update alert. This is my first House fic, so I apologize if people are a bit OOC. I'm trying!

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Wilson rubbed the bridge of his nose and sighed. "Is he badly hurt?"

"He's seizing and might have a broken arm. He didn't hit anyone, _thank God_, and we can't find any obvious problems. I know that you're his emergency contact."

Wilson sighed again and silently apologized for the words he was about to say. "Cameron, he has acute myelogenous leukemia and he started chemotherapy yesterday. I have him on Cytarabine and Daunomycin. The seizures are possibly caused by those, but don't assume that's what it is."

Cameron was silent for a brief second before saying, "okay. I'm going to have him up to get a CT scan and an MRI."

"I'll be there as soon as I can."

Almost a half an hour later - and it was _excruciating_ - Wilson was walking through the ER looking for House's bed. He spotted Cameron looking at films with Cuddy. He stopped beside them and stared at the film with them, and breathed a sigh of relief when he didn't see anything _bad_.

"Broken shoulder and road rash, but he'll be okay. He'll need a new jacket and helmet," Cameron said, nodding to the nurse's station. House's helmet was nearly broken in half, and his shredded jacket sat beside it. "He probably has a concussion. We won't know the extent of his injuries until he's awake."

"He's not awake yet?" Wilson asked, glancing around. "Where is he?"

"CT still. There was a line to get in. You said he started chemo yesterday, right? Did he have any seizures after treatment?"

Wilson shook his head, his stomach knotted and cold. House could've died from a motorcycle accident, and for what? He shouldn't have been driving.

"He was dizzy and nauseas yesterday. Today he was sick, and he was having short term memory loss. But all of that is very typical of chemotherapy. Are there witness reports?"

Cuddy handed a clipboard to Wilson and he quickly read through it. "'Motorcyclist was approaching a red light and was slowing down. At around 10 mph, he began swerving and lost balance and fell." Wilson shook his head while he read it. "When I approached him on the ground as I was calling 911, he was twitching and unresponsive.' Wow. He's lucky he didn't hit anything even at that speed."

Cameron gave him a smile. "Motorcycles are safer than cars as long as you don't hit anything. He isn't badly hurt. He just needs to take it easy." She looked around and lowered her voice. "How bad is his cancer? Why hasn't anyone been informed?"

"He'll be fine if he starts taking care of himself. And patient doctor confidentiality still holds here, even if he's a doctor. He's my patient, and I'm his emergency contact and you needed to know." Wilson looked at Cuddy who had her arms folded and was staring at the X-Ray film blankly.

"Nobody else needs to know, and unless it's medically necessary you don't need to bring it up with him," Cuddy said, turning her sharp eyes to Cameron. Cameron nodded.

Doors opened at the far end of the ER and Wilson couldn't stop a small smile from slipping onto his face. House was on a stretcher, loudly complaining and berating the nurses who were pushing him in.

"And do you _really _think that I can't see those looks you two are exchanging? It's, like, so unfair for you to treat me this bad. I'm going to sue your asses off!" He ended the rant loudly, stopping movement around him for a second.

Wilson turned to Cameron and smirked. "He's fine." The nurses pushed House past them, and House's glare took in all three of them equally. Wilson followed the stretcher into an empty space in the ICU, and helped the nurses close the curtains around the bed. Cameron and Cuddy stopped to look at the CT films and Wilson pulled a chair up to sit beside House.

"Is there a specific reason you decided to jump on your bike minutes after finishing treatment after I told you I'd give you a ride if you needed it?"

House gave him wide eyes and said, "I'm sorry master. I won't do it again. Please don't beat me."

"This isn't a joke House. You could have -"

"I could've died, yes yes I know. But I didn't, and tomorrow is a new day that my _cancer _can try to take me out." House struggled to sit up, and Wilson put a hand behind his back to help him. House pulled the oxygen tubes out of his nose and tossed it on the floor. Wilson watched him, trying to keep a blank face. A bruise was forming on the left side of his face. His left arm was in a sling, and he was wincing as he tried to adjust the strap. He looked up when the curtain was pulled aside and Cameron stepped in, and he snapped, "can I get some damn Vicodin?"

Cameron turned to the nurse beside her and the nurse disappeared before she turned back to Wilson and House. Cuddy was gone.

"You have a mild concussion, which is amazing considering the damage to your helmet."

"It was a good soldier."

"Do you remember the minutes leading up to the accident?" Cameron asked as the nurse came back, and took the syringe away from her. Cameron twisted the syringe onto the IV and administered the pain drugs. Wilson kept his eyes glued to House, waiting for his answer.

"Yes. I was driving. And then I lost control and fell off and knocked myself out."

Wilson opened his mouth but before he could say anything, House gave him a sharp look. He closed his mouth and waited.

"You had a few seizures. It's possible that the seizures were caused by the trauma from falling."

"But...?" House raised his eyebrows in suspicion.

"But I think you seized before you fell and that's why you lost control."

Wilson shook his head slightly at Cameron, but it was too late. House's gaze turned from Cameron to Wilson and he narrowed his eyes. "You said something."

"I needed to." Wilson looked at Cameron for help.

"I had to know what drugs you were on in case something I had to give you would react badly, that's all. I can't say anything to anyone legally, so your secret -"

"Stop it. Just stop. Get out. Get me ready to be discharged or fall off the roof, I don't care. Just leave me alone with Wilson, and don't you dare eavesdrop," House said and waved his good hand to the curtain and watched Cameron stomp out, twitching the curtain shut angrily. Wilson opened his mouth to defend himself but House spoke first. His eyes were downcast and his voice was quiet, but Wilson heard him say, "I don't remember very much from this morning. I remember puking out my stomach during treatment, and I remember getting on my bike, but that's it."

"You just told Cameron -"

House looked up at Wilson then, for just a brief second before looking down, but Wilson didn't miss the anguish in his eyes. "I lied. It doesn't take a genius to figure out that I wrecked my bike. I saw my helmet out there, and the shoulder break is a bit of a hint. The nurses asked me questions about the accident. I pieced it together. But I don't remember it."

"It's common with concussions to not remember the accident that caused the head injury." Wilson offered gently, and House shook his head.

"I don't need you to tell me things I already know. I just..don't like my head being screwed with, that's all." House adjusted his sling again and cleared his throat. "I'm going to be here for a little while. Just go for now. I'll be here when you get back. I promise."

Wilson hesitated. He had other patients he had to see today, and he needed to take care of his responsibilities. But he didn't want to leave House.

House swayed on the stretcher and Wilson's heart jumped to his throat before House looked up at him with a shaky smile. "Cameron gave me something good. I should probably lie down." Wilson helped him lie back on the thin bed and pulled his blanket up to his chest. House's eyes closed and his breathing quickly evened out. Wilson sighed and, unwillingly, walked out to finish his appointments.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Wilson helped House out of his car hours later. Cuddy allowed Wilson to take the day off after he finished with his appointments, but firmly told him that he could not miss anymore work.

"Do you need me to stay here?" Wilson asked as House hobbled up the steps slowly. He was wincing in pain and looked like death, with a bruise on his forehead and his face drawn and pale.

"No. I'll just go to bed." House dug around in his pocket for his keys and unlocked the door to his place. Wilson walked in behind him, prepared to catch him if he stumbled.

"It's 3 in the afternoon! You aren't going to bed. I have the rest of the day off. Do you want me to pick up some take out? We can -"

House shook his head and leaned his cane against the couch. "No, Wilson. I'm _fine_. I don't need you breathing down my neck and taking care of me. I have no desire to leave, and even if I wanted to, I wouldn't get far. I'm too tired." _And freaked out_ he thought.

"Fine," Wilson sighed in agitation. "Please call me if you _do _want to get out. I don't mind, really."

House didn't say anything. He limped to his kitchen and pulled open the refrigerator and grabbed a beer. Wilson stood by the front door, watching his stiff movements, before leaving, closing the door quietly behind him.

_I can't keep doing this. I can't go through with this_. House set his beer down on the counter top and readjusted his sling. He twisted off the top with a wince and took a long, deep drink. He put the beer back down and reached into his pocket and grinned to himself. He'd guilted Cameron into giving him a full prescription of morphine, with empty promises that he would take them as directed and he would only use them if the pain in his shoulder got worse. Without a second thought, he opened the bottle of morphine - that Wilson didn't know he had, because if he knew, House wouldn't have been left alone - and dropped two into his mouth. He swallowed them back with another sip of beer, and limped out to the couch.

He set the bottle of morphine on the table beside his beer, then pulled his cell phone out of his pocket. He flipped it open and pressed the power button until it shut off, then dropped it on top of the table. For a moment he debated taking his house phone off the hook, then reached over and unplugged the cord from the phone. Immediately, he relaxed and laid back on the couch.

_What am I going to do? _He thought, rubbing his thigh. He grabbed his beer and sipped on it while his thoughts raced. _I'm not ready for this_.

"You should have thought about that before you agreed to treatment," he told himself bitterly, and finished off his beer. He sat back up and rubbed his head.

House awkwardly limped back to the kitchen and pulled a plastic bag from a drawer and filled it with ice. He opened the refrigerator and pulled out a second beer and walked carefully to the bathroom. He set the ice bag for his shoulder and beer down on the counter and plugged up the drain in the bathtub and turned on the hot water. Carefully, he undid his sling and unbuttoned his shirt (he silently thanked Wilson for smartly thinking of an easy shirt to get in and out of) then slid the shirt and sling off of his arms. He winced as his shoulder throbbed.

House made his way back out to the living room while the tub filled up and locked the front door before grabbing his morphine and going back into the bathroom.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*


	9. Chapter 9

Disclaimer: I don't own anybody in this story.

Author's note: Thanks so much for the reviews and all of you who added this to an update alert. This is my first House fic, so I apologize if people are a bit OOC. I'm trying! This is purely a House fic, no pairings.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

_This is the moment I should have someone to hold_. The words kept replaying themselves in House's mind as he laid in bed, unable to get comfortable enough to sleep. His mind wouldn't shut off. For the last hour, he'd thought of taking his morphine _and _Vicodin with a couple of beers. The thought of calling Wilson popped up more than once. _He said he wouldn't mind going out_. Memories of kissing Cuddy in her house, and he ached. Not for her, at least not in that way. _Never again_ he kept reminding himself. Today had been terrible, and he'd come to the conclusion that he wouldn't participate with treatment any longer.

The decision killed him. He spent a long time in his bathtub, took two more morphine pills an hour after the first two, and knew he was sulking. Nothing would convince him to change his mind.

_I only agreed to the damn treatment because of Wilson_ he thought bitterly, and rolled over onto his right side and pulled his pillow over his head. It was early still, only 6 PM. His phones were still disconnected, and he had no intention of hooking them back up until at least the next day.

_Why continue treatment if I'll lose my short term memory, have seizures, and not work_? It was a weak argument and the doctor part of him - the always logical, always right, part of him knew that. But the _human _part of him was terrified. _What if I don't get better after treatment? Then what?_

_Then at least you gave it a shot_.

House shut his eyes tightly and tried to shut off his mind. The four pills he had taken in less than 2 hours had him so high that he didn't think he'd safely make it anywhere by himself. They would wear off within another 2 hours, but by then he'd be asleep - he hoped.

_I need..._ he shut off his mind again, but the ache of laying in bed with _anyone _- even Chase would be welcomed - was too strong. He wanted a friend to lean on. He was dying, and only three people knew. And not one of them was with him.

_It's my fault_ he thought sourly. He knew any one of them would come if he asked, but he couldn't do it. He couldn't give in and show any of them that it was affecting him this bad. _This cancer is so easily treatable. I would force any patient with this into treatment. Why can't I do it?_ He pulled the pillow off his face and rolled onto his back and stared at the ceiling, gripping the pillow between his hands on his stomach.

_You're a coward_ his mind sneered. _Everyone always tells you that. You're a coward and you're going to die because you are too weak and too scared to do what's right._

_Maybe this _is _right_.

_Then don't take a coward's way out. Don't take a few bottles of pills and pass out until you die. Look brave when you go._

Knocking.

House sat upright in his bed and the room swam slightly from the drugs. He listened with his breath in his throat and waited. Part of him prayed it had been his imagination, but the coward part of him wanted it to be..who? It didn't matter at this point who it was.

The door opened. It had to be Wilson. Nobody else had keys to his place.

Soft footsteps came closer to his bedroom, then fell silent in the kitchen. The refrigerator opened and closed, then he appeared in the doorway with a smile. House stared at him, torn between relief and anger, taking in the white plastic bag in one hand - _take out_ - and two beers in his other hand. Slowly, House eased his grip on his pillow that he had clutched to his stomach and set it down beside him.

"You should eat," Wilson said, breaking the silence. He walked the rest of the way into the bedroom and placed the bag and beers on the bedside table. He turned his eyes back to House and eyed him suspiciously. "Was I interrupting something?"

House cleared his throat twice before he could answer. "I was just brooding."

"How's your shoulder?" Wilson sat down at the foot of the bed and studied his friend.

"I took four morphine pills. I can't feel a thing right now." House sat rigidly, unsure of how to act. He had spent an hour in bed, thinking of what he was going to do, say, and of what he _wanted _to do, and now that he had his friend here - who _would _be there for him, no matter what he did - he couldn't do anything.

"You took _four_?" Wilson sighed and scratched the back of his head. "Look, House..I'm not just here to have a beer and share Chinese food with you."

"No?"

"I don't personally _know _what you're going through, but I know you, and I know cancer patients. I talked with Cuddy after I dropped you off, and she wanted to come over, but neither of us could get a hold of you. I - _we_ - are worried."

"Haven't we had this conversation already?" House asked, his anger bubbling over his depression. "You're right! You _don't _know what I'm going through. Sitting around while patients die is not the same as knowing what it's like to _be _dying."

House took a deep breath and closed his eyes. He swallowed a lump that rose in his throat and his mind raced to find something else to talk about.

"You need to talk to _someone _about this. I'm not leaving this time, either. You can hit me and yell at me and insult me all you want, but I need to know that you're okay."

House shook his head and raised his eyes to Wilson. "I'm done with this. I'm not doing anymore chemo. I've thought about this long and hard, and I won't finish it up." He dropped his eyes back to his lap and bit his lip hard enough to hurt. He heard Wilson sigh.

"Why? You only have five more days Greg. Five! And then next week, I'll test you and we'll make sure that we got it all. What is five more days compared to what you'll go through if you _don't _do treatment?"

"LOOK!" House ran his hand through his hair and when he brought his hand back around, clumps of hair sat in his palm. "I can't do this! There are other doctors who can treat the sick and dying patients. I'm not _needed_, I'm only an advantage." House cleared his throat and lowered his head again as tears burned the back of his eyes. He wiped his hand on his pants, pushing his hair onto the bed and the floor.

"**I **need you! Cuddy needs you!" Wilson felt panic building up. If House was really giving up, this was it. This was his last opportunity to convince him to stick with it. This behavior was _exactly _what he'd been waiting for.

"You guys don't need me." House sounded tired and resigned. Wilson reached out but didn't touch him, and House hunched his shoulders more, crushed. He'd wanted the comfort.

"Why?" Wilson asked, his heart in his throat. "Why won't you keep going?"

House squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head. A tear rolled down his cheek and he tried to raise his left arm to wipe it and groaned as his shoulder throbbed.

"Greg." Wilson kept his voice low and moved carefully to the middle of the bed, positioning himself on his knees nearly in front of House. "It's okay to be scared."

"I'm not scared," House snapped and wiped his face with his good hand. He didn't want Wilson to see him crying, not now.

"You can't lie to me."

House's head snapped up and Wilson's heart skipped. His eyes were red and full of unshed tears, and he looked so..normal. He looked like a scared person _should _look..

"I'm not scared," House repeated, shaking his head and narrowing his eyes. "Just go home. I don't want you here anymore. You do nothing but make me feel worse."

Wilson reached out then and put his hands on House's shoulders, being as careful as possible with the broken one. House didn't even flinch. So he hadn't been lying about how much morphine he'd taken, anyway.

"You're terrified," Wilson said, his voice quiet. He wasn't asking; he knew it was true. House opened his mouth to argue, to yell at him and moved to push the hands away, but instead a small sound came out. As if a dam had burst, he hung his head and started crying.

Tears welled up in Wilson's eyes and he sat flat on the bed and put his arms around the man's shoulders. House didn't try to fight him; he cried harder, silent sobs racking his body. Wilson closed his eyes and held House, tears silently falling from his own eyes.

"I don't have a reason to live," House's words cut at Wilson like knives and he tightened his arms around him.

"Of course you do," Wilson said gently.

"I never had a family." House's body trembled and he raised his good hand to wipe his face, but he couldn't pull away. For too long he had had no one, and he would be embarrassed later. Wilson was there. That was all that mattered.

"You never wanted a family." Wilson chuckled briefly, and House shook his head.

"I might have wanted one, once," House's tears slowed and he started to pull away. Wilson let go and wiped his own face, but not before House saw it. House needed to know that he wasn't the only one.

"Why won't you finish it out?" Wilson asked softly.

House lowered his head and fidgeted with the blanket from the bed, and suddenly felt ashamed. _Crying in another man's arms. Wilson's arms!_ He shook his head and turned his back to Wilson and lowered his feet to the floor.

"No." Wilson reached out and grabbed House's wrist to stop him. "Not until you talk to me."

"I _told _you. I don't have a reason to live. I don't want to lose anymore hair. My brain is _freaking _out. I can't do this! My brain was the last part of me that wasn't screwed up." House pulled his arm free from Wilson's grip but didn't make a move to get off of the bed. Wilson bit back a snarky remark about how his brain wasa little screwed up to begin with. He knew what House had meant.

"It's not permanent, you know that."

House nodded. "I do know that. I know _all _of the reasons to keep doing it, and I know as well as you do that it's all normal. I wouldn't tolerate this from a patient."

Wilson scooted across the bed until he was sitting beside House with his own feet on the floor. He put his left arm across House's shoulders and was careful not to put too much pressure on the injury.

"You're human like the rest of us. Damn." Wilson made his voice sound disappointed and he smiled at his friend encouragingly. "House, you're going to be okay. You know that. These side effects, the chemo brain - that'll all go away in a week. Your hair will grow back. You needed a trim anyway."

"I only did treatment for you, Wilson," House said and cleared his throat, embarrassment finally finding it's way into the situation.

"Will you finish it out for me?" Wilson squeezed his shoulder's gently, and House sighed.

They both fell silent, Wilson waiting anxiously for House to agree, and House waiting to see if Wilson would back off. Neither of them wanted to give in. House raised his head and glanced back at the beer sitting on the table across the bed, and Wilson leaned back and grabbed the bottles. He held one out to House, then pulled it back from his grasp.

"You can't give up."

"Why not?"

"Because you never give up on anything."

House grabbed the bottle from Wilson's hand and opened it with a wince. He watched Wilson from the corner of his eye as he opened his bottle too.

"I was going to take both bottles of pills before you showed up," House confessed, then took a sip of beer.

Wilson gave him a small smile and patted his back. "I'm happy that you didn't."

"I don't want to regret not doing it."

"You won't." Wilson nodded in the direction of the living room. "Do you want to go watch chicks in bathing suits and eat egg rolls?"

House stood up, a little unsteadily, and didn't pull away when Wilson stood up to help him. Wilson walked around the bed and grabbed his cane and the bag of food - most of which was probably cold by now - and waited for House to go out the door.

"I want your help with something first." Wilson raised his eyebrows, then followed House out of the bedroom apprehensively.

* * *

Review :)


	10. Chapter 10

An alarm startled House awake the next morning. He blinked against the morning light coming in from his living room window. Movement beside him brought his memories from the night before back and he bit back a harsh remark as Wilson sat up on the other end of the couch, rubbing his eyes and turning off his phone alarm.

"This is hot," House said, sitting up with a groan. He and Wilson had both passed out on the couch watching TV and his leg _and _shoulder screamed in pain. "This is the closest thing to action I've had in a week."

"That'll be $30," Wilson held out his hand, his eyes closing tiredly.

"No returning customer price?" House reached for his morphine bottle on the table and opened it stiffly. He took two pills and stretched his good arm above his head, trying to work out the kinks in his back. "_Why_ did you let me fall asleep like this?"

"You fell asleep after me." Wilson stood up and scratched his head as he walked to the bathroom. House leaned forward and picked up Wilson's phone and saw that it was 6 AM. He fell onto his side and closed his eyes. "You know," Wilson said from the bathroom, "everyone's going to know something's up when they see us."

House grinned, his eyes still closed, and sighed in content.

"I look ridiculous." Wilson came back out into the living room and leaned over the couch and casually flicked House in the ear. "Are you getting in the shower first?"

"In a minute," House mumbled, and sleep dragged him under again.

A half an hour later, Wilson woke him up, freshly showered and in clean clothes. He had an apple in one hand and was holding his cell phone in the other.

"Are you taking a shower?" He asked, bringing the phone up to his ear. House sat up and rubbed his head and frowned.

"Why did you let me shave my head?" He asked, looking up at Wilson, who stared back at him confused. Wilson held up a finger to shush him and walked away to talk to whoever was on the other line.

He stood up and grabbed his cane from the floor and winced with every step he took toward the bathroom. His entire body was sore, which he assumed was from a combination of the accident, the seizures and sleeping on the couch with Wilson.

When he got to the bathroom, he stared at his reflection nostalgically. In an effort to keep his life in as much control as possible, he shaved his head. It wasn't _bald _bald, but it was the shortest he'd had it in a very long time. Wilson shaved his head, too, just as short as his, to keep him going. He'd almost stopped when he had half of his hair off, but he knew that it'd all fall off in the next few days anyway. Wilson convinced him that it would grow back.

Wilson appeared in the doorway and House met his eyes in the mirror and grinned. "You're right. You _do _look ridiculous."

"What are you going to tell them?" Wilson asked, running his hand over his buzzed head.

"By them, I assume you mean my team. I'm not telling _them _anything. Let them think what they want," House said and turned to the tub to turn on the water.

"Cuddy wants to talk to you before your treatment today."

"No." House pulled the faucet and felt the water, waiting for it to warm up.

Wilson sighed and walked out of the doorway, closing the bathroom door behind him. House scratched his forehead and leaned his cane against the wall and started undressing for his shower.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

"So what's going on with pancreatic cancer chick?" House asked as they stood side by side in the elevator on their way up to the Oncology ward. He had on jeans and a button up shirt - it was the easiest thing he could get into with his shoulder - and a black beanie on his head.

"She's not mad at you, if that's what you're asking," Wilson answered, looking at his watch with a sigh.

"I don't know why she'd be mad at me. I didn't say anything wrong to her. How long does she have?" House stepped off the elevator and made his way to the chemo room.

"A week maybe. Why?" Wilson asked suspiciously.

"I wanted to hit that." House smirked and followed Wilson through the doors into the treatment room. He chose the most secluded chair today and closed his eyes momentarily as his stiff muscles protested.

"I have an appointment in 10 minutes." Wilson checked his watch again and smiled at the nurse who was hooking House up to the medication today. "I'll be back by the time your treatment is done. Do you want me to take you home after?"

House shook his head and watched as the medication flowed from the tube into his arm. "I've left my minions alone too long. It's day 3, I should feel better, right?"

"Yes. You should feel better. I'll see you in an hour." Wilson waved and walked out quickly without another word. House frowned, trying to think of what Wilson's problem was when Cuddy came into the room.

"Dammit. He tricked me," House said and snapped his fingers. "You were in on it too, weren't you?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," Cuddy said as she sat down in an empty chair beside him. She studied him carefully, then nodded to herself and smiled. "I'm glad you came back. I was afraid you wouldn't, after yesterday."

"What do you want?" He asked, feeling his patience recede. He was starting to feel the medication kick in.

Cuddy didn't seem to hear him, or care, because she was quite cheerful when she said, "you have five patients that need you today. I know I said I'd work with you during treatment, and I will, but your team is asking questions and they pretty much know that you're sick with _something_. So you either tell them what's going on and work from home, or you stay here and tell them whatever you want. But I can't let you stay home and work with no logical reason why you're gone, because I don't want them getting any ideas."

"It's not _my _problem if they get ideas. I don't have to tell them what's going on with me, and legally you can't fire me for having cancer," House closed his eyes and put his head in his hand as his stomach rolled. "I'm giving you fair warning now, Cuddy. I'm going to get really sick in about a minute."

A moment later, a bucket was put on House's thighs and he looked through his fingers at Cuddy, who was still sitting there smiling at him. Before he could wipe the smile off her face, bile came up his throat and he gripped the bucket tightly.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

"You lied to me," House said morosely when Wilson came into the chemo room a half an hour later. He was reclined in the chair, the IV still hooked up to his arm. Thankfully Cuddy left shortly after he started getting sick, but not before reminding him of work and leaving a wet towel on his neck.

"What did I lie about?" Wilson checked the IV bags and line, then went to another patient in the room to check on his IV.

"You said I would feel better. I got sick less than 10 minutes into it today."

"I said you _should _feel better. And you _should _feel better after treatment. You still have 15 minutes left."

House sighed in resignation and closed his eyes, listening to the conversation between Wilson and his other patients. He laughed out loud when an older lady asked in a scandalized tone, "Dr. Wilson, what happened to your hair?!"

"I have an extremely vain patient who couldn't bear the thought of going bald so I shaved my head with him," Wilson replied smoothly, and House stopped laughing. He opened his eyes and glared at Wilson's back.

"You're a good man," the lady said with a bright smile, and Wilson thanked her before moving on. House watched him and felt a pang of something - jealousy? Shame? - before turning his head. Wilson was good with patients, and knew their names and comforted them. House was completely opposite.

After treatment, House had to admit that he _did _feel better. He wasn't throwing up or feeling horribly nauseous, and he wasn't overly exhausted. He felt good, and was ready to work.

"You look better," Wilson said in the elevator on their way down to their offices.

"Don't tell Cuddy. I might get away with another day of sleeping on the job," House adjusted the strap on his sling and prepared himself for the onslaught of questions his team was going to ask him.

Before any of the doctors could open their mouths to ask the obvious questions - _What happened to your arm? Your head?_ - House said, "I fell off my bike. I'm fine, don't panic. I hear you've started slacking and now have _five _cases open. Not one of you used the board?" He asked, hanging his can on the white board for emphasis. He rolled his neck and picked up his marker. "Tell me about the one who's going to die first."

A little while later, House was standing in one of his patient's room, holding a paper face mask to his face as he stood at the foot of the bed. They were arguing - the man denying drug use, the wife defending her husband, and House telling them that the tox screen was _positive_ for methamphetamine.

"Then if you aren't purposely doing the drug, someone is slipping it to you. Do you have kids? Teenager struggling to come to terms with his sexuality and taking it out on you?" House raised his eyebrows at the couple who exchanged looks briefly. "I need to know what it's being cut with. If there's rat poison in there, then you've been poisoned and are dying."

Finally he had Foreman and Kutner off to confront the couple's teenage son, while Thirteen and Taub stayed behind to work on the other four cases. By lunch time - 4 hours after his treatment ended - he'd only had to excuse himself once to throw up in the bathroom, and the rest of the time had flown by. He was feeling a lot better.

Wilson stopped at the outer office as they were finishing up their differential for their second sickest patient - they found the heart problem the first ultrasounds had missed - and Thirteen hid a smile when she saw him. Taub raised his eyebrows.

"What did you do to your hair?" He asked surprised. House watched Wilson with a hard look. He still had his beanie on, and nobody had asked him what he was hiding.

"I had a bet with a patient. I lost," Wilson answered with a defeated shrug. House stood up from the chair he'd been sitting in and grabbed his cane from the board. "Ready?" Wilson asked, holding the door open for House and waving to the two doctors briefly. When they were down the hall and out of earshot, Wilson said, "are you feeling better?"

"Yes," House hit the button on the elevator and stood rigidly against his cane. His shoulder was starting to hurt alongside his leg. "I'm even hungry."

Wilson clapped House on the back once and smiled as they walked off of the elevator toward the cafeteria. "That's a major improvement. I'm happy for you. I take it you didn't seize after? Anymore memory loss?"

"Not that I know of," House said as they got in line with trays. He felt awkward limping along the line without the use of his second hand.

"Have you talked to Cuddy?"

"Not since this morning."

The two fell silent after that. Wilson grabbed House's tray and paid for both of their meals and followed House to an empty table. They sat down across from each other, and Wilson watched his friend pick up a french fry and eat it. After a few minutes of silence while they ate, Wilson put his fork down and said quietly, "what's wrong?"

House looked up at him slightly startled. "Why would anything be wrong? I'm alive and healthier, and my excellent pain management skills are making it easier to get through the day."

"Are you actually upset that you're alive?" Wilson asked, his tone sharp. He leaned forward to make sure he wasn't overheard. "After last night -"

"Nothing happened last night," House said angrily and dropped his napkin on top of his mostly untouched food.

"Bullshit." Wilson narrowed his eyes. "Don't you dare do this. You're getting better, and in a week you'll be back to throwing a ball against your wall in your office and bitching about your leg and you'll be back to your miserable existence."

"Thanks," House snapped and stood up. "I wasn't mad at _you_." Wilson opened his mouth to say something - either apologize, or try to explain what he meant - but House continued on. "I have things to do."

House walked away, leaving Wilson alone at the table in surprise. _I thought things were better_ he thought tiredly, and shook his head in frustration.

* * *

Okay. There was concern about possible Huddy. I'd written in a few Huddy scenes in later chapters because I was having a writer's block, but I've since fixed it. No Huddy, no Hilson, no pairings. I have ideas for stories that involve those pairings later. R&R :)


	11. Chapter 11

"Don't talk to me," House said when he heard his office door open behind him. He was standing in front of his white board with a marker in hand, writing out symptoms of his third patient. Thirteen was the only doctor in the room - everyone else was at lunch still.

"How did you know it was me?" Wilson asked, not moving from the doorway.

"Dicks give off a disgusting smell," House answered and turned from the board to stare at Wilson with angry eyes.

Thirteen stared from one to the other and made a move to leave, and House looked at her and said, "don't you dare move."

"This is between you two, not me," she said defensively, and when House didn't give in she sighed and turned back to a book she had open on the desk. House turned back to Wilson and waited.

"I didn't mean for what I said to come out that way." Wilson took an uneasy step into the office and House turned his back on him again. "Don't do this. I don't know _why _you're upset all of the sudden. You were good last night, and this morning. What changed?"

House closed his eyes and took a deep, steadying breath before he spoke. He kept his voice as calm as possible and asked, "I can't be upset for no reason?"

Thirteen stifled a laugh from the desk and House and Wilson both turned to stare at her, confused. She shook her head and smiled to herself, keeping her eyes on her book. "You never do anything for no reason, House."

"You told her to stay," Wilson said when House glared at the back of her head.

"Fine," House pulled his beanie off his head and threw it on the table. Thirteen glanced up when the beanie moved some papers, and her eyes widened slightly. "We may have had a real nice heart to heart last night, and you may have talked me into doing the _right _thing by continuing chemo, but I can't get these thoughts out of my head." House pulled his Vicodin bottle out of his pocket - his morphine was good, but he wanted to save it for later - and popped two pills in his mouth. He turned his back on both Thirteen and Wilson, who had identical surprised expressions, even if they were for different reasons. He grabbed his cane and started walking to his office.

Thirteen and Wilson followed House and Thirteen blurted out, "do you have _cancer_?"

Wilson said, "it's _okay _to be depressed," at the same time.

House sat down at his desk and ran his hand over his bare head uneasily. _I should've made Thirteen leave._

"Stay," Wilson said softly, and House looked up and saw Thirteen stopped between Wilson and the door. "He needs someone who understands."

House groaned and put his forehead on his desk and closed his eyes. _If I stay like this long enough, maybe they'll leave._

_Fat chance._ He thought bitterly.

"I'm really not good with this," Thirteen said uneasily. House didn't bother to look up at them. Apparently, Wilson knew what House needed better than he knew himself.

"Neither is he," Wilson's voice was encouraging.

"Don't." The one word was rough and angry, and he waited to hear the sound of his office door closing. When it didn't close, he looked up and met their eyes. "Please just go. I can't deal with any more of this. I'm fine, Wilson. I'm not going to do anything stupid. I need to get back to the patient."

"Are you _sure _you aren't going to do anything stupid?" Thirteen asked quietly. House looked at her and had to bite his tongue from lashing out at her. "You know what I did when I got diagnosed. If it weren't for you, I might have died."

House laughed bitterly and shook his head. "Don't play games with me. The only thing I did was fire you, and that was only to keep your career intact. You didn't quit what you were doing because of me."

"Some of the things you said to me stuck with me," she insisted, and House had nothing to say back. He didn't know her very well, so he couldn't argue. If she wanted to lie to him to make him feel better, it wasn't going to help. If she were telling the truth, it still didn't matter.

"You aren't alone here," Wilson half-pleaded, and House nodded.

"I know I'm not. But I _want _to be."

Wilson threw his hands up and walked into the outer office, rubbing his neck with his hand. House watched, slightly amused, then looked up at Thirteen. She was staring at him as if she'd never seen him before, and he hated it. Her reaction was the exact reason he didn't want anyone to know.

"Are you..dying?" She asked quietly, and moved stiffly to a chair in front of his desk. Without waiting for permission, she sat down and stared at him with wide eyes.

House shook his head slowly. "I don't think so. It's..treatable," he fumbled over what he was saying. He didn't know what to tell her.

"Then.." she trailed off and visibly steadied herself. "Then why are you so..upset? You're getting better, aren't you?" He heard the sorrow in her voice, and the unsaid words in her mind. _She's right. She isn't going to get better, and she _will _die. Why am I so upset?_

"Because I'm scared that I won't get better," he whispered and swallowed back a lump in his throat. He put his elbow on the armrest of his chair and put his forehead in his hand.

He heard her moving, but before he could stop her or do more than lift his head from his hand, she was on her knees in front of him with her hands on his thighs. A brief thought entered his head about her being on her knees, and he glanced up and saw Wilson standing in the office again. Wilson shook his head slightly as if to say _don't you dare say it._

"It _is _okay to be depressed. But when you push everyone away who would try to help, it's hard to be understanding." She squeezed his thighs gently. He stared into her eyes, giving her his full attention. She had unshed tears in her eyes.

"There is no 'everyone'."

"I know a few people here who would do everything in their power to help you if you asked." Thirteen sat back slowly until her hands were resting on his knees. "I would help you if you asked."

House let out a shaky breath and nodded, keeping eye contact with her. He said softly, "thank you," and gave her a small smile. She smiled back and stood up, her movements slow and stiff. House looked away, giving her as much privacy as he could, not knowing if she would want him to know her disease was getting worse. _Wasn't she better than this only two days ago?_ He met Wilson's eyes, suddenly uncomfortable. Wilson had watched the whole thing - had probably planned on it the moment he saw Thirteen sitting in the outer office - and House _hated _opening himself up in front of anyone, even Wilson.

"Thank you, Remy," Wilson quietly said as she walked by, giving her a warm smile. House stopped himself as he was about to roll his eyes.

"He saved my ass once," was all she said back.

House and Thirteen's pagers went off at that moment, and House thought, _thank God,_ as he stood up to go to the patient who was coding. The last thing he wanted to do was have _another _conversation about himself with Wilson.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

After seeing to his patient, House went back to his office with Thirteen, Taub and Kutner, and was relieved to see Wilson was gone. Foreman was sitting at the desk beside the white board, flipping through a patient's chart and a book simultaneously.

The doctors sat down around the table while House went to his board and hooked his cane over the top. He turned to them and opened his mouth to talk, then stopped when he met their eyes. He'd forgotten to put his beanie back on, and he could see dawning realization in at least one pair of eyes.

"So.." Taub leaned forward as he trailed off, clasping his hands on top of the desk. "Are _you _the patient Wilson lost a bet to?" When House gave him a confused look, he said, "the matching haircuts."

"Yes," House said flatly, and picked up his marker and uncapped it. "Differe-"

"How sick are you?" Foreman asked, cutting off what House was saying. He was leaning back in his chair casually, with a look on his face that said that he obviously didn't believe whatever game House and Wilson were trying to play.

"I'm not," House answered, avoiding Thirteen's penetrating stare. He'd outed her illness, and it would be understandable if she did the same to him.

Kutner looked from House to the rest of the team, then said, "this isn't our business, and we have three patients who are going to die if we don't diagnose them soon."

"Thanks," House turned back to the board and started to write 'lungs' when Taub spoke up again.

"What drugs does Wilson have you on?"

House hung his head in agitation, then turned back around to the team. "There's _no _reason you need to know that."

"Nope. I just wanted to see if he actually had you on something." Taub smirked and House sighed, scratching his forehead. Foreman was leaning forward in his seat now, curious.

"Okay." House looked up at them and took a steadying breath. "I'll say this once, and we won't talk about it again. You won't babble to everyone who is capable of hearing or communicating, and you won't make _any _references to it again." He waited until they nodded - all but Foreman, anyway - before continuing. "I have acute myelogenous leukemia. I'm done with chemo in 4 days. I am fine, I am not going to die, and that's all you need to know."

Before anyone had time to consider what he said, he started rambling off the symptoms the patient was showing and began writing on the board. Quickly, the team was focussed on work and not House, which he was thankful for, but he couldn't help but think, _that wasn't so bad_, as they worked together normally, without any sideways looks or concerned stares.

It wasn't until hours later - when he'd finally gotten all of his patients taken care of - that House realized the time, and that he'd gone most of the day without really thinking about his cancer. Wilson was sitting in House's office, and it was after 7. His entire body ached. The road rash he'd gotten on his left side was burning and he knew he could easily pass out standing up.

"Are you ready?" Wilson asked, stifling a yawn with his hand. House looked around his office, mentally checking off everything he had or wanted to leave behind, and nodded.

They were walking out of the elevator in the lobby when he coughed. He realized a moment later Wilson had stopped walking beside him, and he turned back and started to ask what he was stopping for when Wilson said, "how long have you had that cough?"

"I don't know. I haven't really noticed it until now," House said, and inwardly cringed as realization started to dawn on him.

"We should ... " Wilson trailed off, then shook his head. "Let's just keep an eye on it. You've had the flu. It could be nothing."

House nodded and followed Wilson out of the hospital, his mind racing. _It can't be a tumor. I've been on chemo. I can't be getting worse._


	12. Chapter 12

"Something's wrong," House gasped with his head over the toilet the next morning. His shoulder seared with pain, and he fought past it to grip the toilet as hard as he could. His body was shaking, and his vision swam when he opened his eyes to look into the toilet. It was almost surprising when he didn't see blood. Wilson pushed the stall door open - House hadn't had time to lock it before falling to the floor - and he knelt beside House with dripping paper towels.

"What's wrong?" He asked, pressing the wet towels to House's neck as House leaned over the toilet again.

"I'm dizzy," House said, panicked. He gagged on bile and coughed it up, spitting into the toilet noisily. "I can't stop shaking."

The towels helped, and he closed his eyes, relishing the feel of water dripping down his back. His stomach started to ease up, and he spit again into the toilet before flushing it.

"It's okay," Wilson soothed, wiping the towel on his friend's face, his stomach tight. He knew it _was _okay, but it still tore him up to see House like this. _Nobody _should go through it.

"Shit," House whispered, and he reached out with both hands, the pain in his shoulder fading. He gripped Wilson's jacket weakly and his eyes rolled back in his head.

When he opened his eyes again, he was on his back on the cool tile in the main part of the bathroom. He stared up at the ceiling, dazed. Wilson was crouched next to him with more towels on his face, and to House's displeasure, Cameron was on his other side. He couldn't remember why he was on the floor, and why Cameron was there.

"Men's room," House muttered, lifting his hand to push Wilson's hand from his face.

"Take it easy. Just lay here for a second," she said calmly, putting pressure on his chest to keep him down. He glared at her.

"Get your hands off of me."

Cameron looked over at Wilson, and when he nodded, she let go. She and Wilson both put their hands behind his back to help him sit up, then helped him scoot against the wall. He closed his eyes and moaned as his shoulder throbbed.

"We need to X-Ray your shoulder again," Cameron said softly, then bit her lip when House opened his eyes to glare at her more.

"You passed out and hit your shoulder on the ground pretty hard. We just want to make sure you didn't damage it more." Wilson reached out with a flashlight and flashed House's eyes briefly before giving him a tight smile. "Cameron was walking by when I called out for help."

"I didn't need help," House snapped, then rubbed his face. "I'm fine. I have to go."

Cameron and Wilson exchanged another look and House stared at them, anger bubbling up. "What?" He asked, and they both turned to him.

"I want to check you in until your treatment is complete," Wilson said carefully. "You are experiencing normal side effects, but you live alone and it would -"

"No." House shook his head and sat forward. "I don't need to be checked in. After a few hours, the side effects go away. You can stay at my place."

Wilson sighed and glanced at Cameron again. "I can't stay with you all the time. Nobody can."

"Do you have a new girlfriend or something?" House moved to stand up, and Cameron came forward to help him. He grit his teeth together in an attempt to not lash out at her.

"I can stay over," Wilson sighed, handing House's cane to him as he stood up with him. "But you should be monitored here. What if you pass out and nobody's around? Or if you start seizing? You could really hurt yourself again."

"House, if you stay here, you'll have round the clock attention. And if your side effects subside after a few hours, you can leave for a few hours to go out if you wanted," Cameron said, trying to encourage Wilson's idea. House walked to the sink to rinse out his mouth and clean his face and hands.

Wilson cleared his throat. "That wouldn't be a great idea, Cameron. He wouldn't come back if he was allowed to leave for a while."

House leaned over the sink too quickly, and the room swam. He threw up bile into the sink and raised his head to look at Wilson's reflection. A wave of nausea rolled over him again, and the room got hot, and he gripped the sink to stop his arms from shaking. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, trying to steady himself.

"James," he groaned, interrupting the conversation between Wilson and Cameron, and started to sink to his knees. HIs body started shaking harder.

"I need a stretcher," Wilson's voice was distant, and House struggled to open his eyes and to tell him not to get one. Wilson put his arms around his waist and lowered him to the floor. "Greg, stay awake. You don't want to pass out again. Just stay awake and calm down."

"I'm calm," House mumbled, and dropped his chin to his chest, passing out.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

House woke up on a hospital bed, and blinked a few times against the bright light. His thoughts were jumbled and he rolled his eyes to his right, trying to make sense of what was going on.

"We aren't checking you in," Wilson said immediately from the doorway, and House looked up to meet his eyes. "You just needed rest, and fluids."

"Cuddy?" House asked thickly, his eyes closing against his will. He forced them open. "I'm so tired. What did you give me?"

"If you're asking where she is, she's in her office. I didn't tell her you were up here. I figured that would piss you off. And I had the nurses give you Percocet. I want to get an MRI of your shoulder, and we might as well check your lungs since we're there," Wilson closed a folder he had in his hands and approached the bed. He took a seat and smiled brightly. House closed his eyes and turned his face away from the cheerfulness. "Are you in pain still?" House shook his head. "Are you still dizzy or nauseous? You've only been out for about 20 minutes."

"I couldn't eat right now, but I'm not going to get sick again," House said, then opened his eyes again. "I shouldn't be having these side effects randomly."

Wilson frowned and watched House guardedly. "These meds affect people differently. And you've been this sick before. Your body is having a harder time handling it, that's all. Chemotherapy is intense." Wilson looked up at the IV bags, then back down at House. "Do you remember anything that happened?"

"Yes. I passed out in the bathroom while you and Cameron were arguing over me. It was touching." House looked at Wilson, then smirked. "You can't keep things from her in her own hospital you know," he said as the door opened and Cuddy came in cautiously.

"I'll schedule your MRI." Wilson grinned at House, then gave him a serious stare before standing up and leaving the room. He closed the door behind him quietly.

"Are you feeling better?" She asked carefully, stepping into the room painfully slow. House watched her curiously.

"I won't bite," he said softly, nodding to the chair beside the bed. She smiled and sat down. "I'm feeling top notch. I am drugged, have fluids, and the side effects from treatment are subsiding. I could throw you down right here and ravish you."

"I'm so sure." She smiled again, touching his forehead gently with her fingertips. Immediately, she touched his forehead with the back of her hand and frowned. "You've got a fever. Why is Wilson scheduling you for an MRI? Are you -?"

House closed his eyes, enjoying the feel of her hand on his face. He spoke without looking at her. "I might've hurt my shoulder more passing out. We're going to check out my lungs while we're there."

Cuddy's hand left his face and he opened his eyes to look up at her. She smiled at him, but all he could do was frown back at her.

She wrapped his hand in both of hers and squeezed gently. "It's going to be okay. You know that. Even if there _is _something there, you're in the best hospital with the best Oncologist in the state. We'll all be here for you."

"I don't want you to be here," he said roughly.

"Don't do this," she said softly, raising her hand back to his forehead. "I'm scared too. We all are. But it'll all be okay."

"Don't come with me to get the MRI," he managed to say, then looked up at her so she didn't mistake his words. "If I get bad news, I .. don't want you there."

"Greg.."

"Dammit, _Cuddy_, " he said sharply, pulling his hand from her grip and forcing himself upright. _Can't let her in_. "Don't. If something is wrong with me, I will deal with it _my _way, and you have no choice but to accept it. If you _can't _accept it, that's your problem, not mine."

Cuddy nodded, only _slightly_ surprised by his words.

Wilson knocked on the door and stepped inside, his professional side showing.

"You need to change into a gown and we'll go."

Cuddy smiled and put her hand on House's forehead again. He closed his eyes and didn't open them until she moved from the bed.

"He has a fever," she said as she walked past Wilson. Wilson nodded and waited until she left before he turned back to House with his arms out at his sides questioningly.

"What did you say?" He asked bluntly, stepping forward and opening drawers in the dresser. He pulled out a thin hospital gown and tossed it onto the bed.

"She doesn't need to get involved in this," House answered, then pulled the IV out of his hand. He carefully pulled his shirt over his head, wincing when his shoulder protested, then slid the gown up his arms.

Wilson stayed quiet while he helped House tie the gown and turned around when he took off his pants. When he was changed and sitting on the edge of the bed, he turned back and folded his arms across his chest expectantly.

"Why not? You certainly can use more friends, especially now." Wilson shook his head sadly. "She _likes _you. It's amazing that _anyone _could like you with the arrogance that radiates off of you in fatal doses. She accepts you, and thinks of herself as your friend."

House stood up, his legs shaky, and reached for his cane. He ignored Wilson's tirade and walked out into the hallway. Wilson followed, bitching under his breath, and the two started to the elevators to go down.

When they were alone in the elevator, House turned to Wilson. "If there are tumors, I'll finish out chemo, but I'm not going to start new treatment. I'm going to sign a DNR, and that will be that."

Wilson's body stilled when House was done speaking, and he turned his face to stare at House in disbelief. "You can't -"

"Yes. I can. I'm not going through radiation, or more chemo. _If_ the tumors are in a location to be operated on, I'll consider that. But you can't talk me out of this decision. I'm going to get in touch with a lawyer once I get the results."

The elevator doors opened and House shuffled out, leaving Wilson standing stunned inside.

* * *

Thank you SO SO much for your reviews. I really love them. Especially sitting in boring classes and getting emails with super sweet comments. AH! 3 As for my previous comment about not making this Huddy/whatever, it's nothing anybody reading this said to me. Huddy would've been cute for like, one chapter, and I completely re-wrote chapters 11-14 because I was bored with the plot involving Huddy. It'd be MUCH cuter with Hilson.......

So new chapter tonight (2 chapters in one day!) because you guys rock with reviews.


	13. Chapter 13

Disclaimer: I don't own any characters in this story except 'Pancreatic Cancer Chick' Laura.

* * *

House paced his office after his MRI. He'd gone back to the hospital room he'd been in earlier and got dressed, and quickly found himself pacing the length of his office, music blaring from his computer speakers. His team sat around the desk in the connecting office, but he ignored them. Nobody wanted to come to him.

Wilson wouldn't let House look at the results after the MRI had finished. He'd insisted that _as his doctor _he had to pour over the pictures and make absolute certain of the results before House could look at it. It was killing him, and if he had been stronger, he would've physically fought Wilson for a spot beside him while he looked at his chest.

He'd yelled at Wilson and tried to force his way in, regardless of his lack of strength at the time. Wilson had been convincing, though, and sent House to get Tylenol for his fever and try to calm down.

Finally, Wilson came into the office with the MRI films, and House snatched them from his hands and held them up to the light. Wilson turned off the speakers on the computer, leaving them in silence. House studied the films for a full minute before letting out a shaky breath.

"Oh God," he said quietly, and he sank into the chair behind his desk.

"It's all clear," Wilson said, smiling. He looked as relieved as House felt. "Your shoulder is good, too. You just need to not fall on it anymore."

"You son of a bitch," House snapped, staring up at Wilson, gripping the films in his hand. "You made me wait for 30 minutes. I thought for sure.." he trailed off and shook his head. His team was standing at the door, watching him curiously. "I'm fine! Go away."

"You could learn to be more appreciative," Wilson smiled again, putting his hands in his pockets.

"I think I'm going to fill out a DNR anyway." House held the film up again, double checking the results. He had to be absolutely sure there was nothing there. "I could have a tumor that's too small to see."

Wilson snorted. "Too small to see, but big enough to impair your breathing? I called in a consult to be certain there wasn't anything hiding."

House looked up at him then, and narrowed his eyes. "Who did you call in?"

"Chase. He was the only doctor around."

"You _idiot_," House sighed and rubbing his eyes. "Does _everyone _I've worked with know what's going on now? You can go. I have to call my attorney."

"You can't be serious about the DNR. You don't need to fill out a DNR if you aren't dying," Wilson stepped forward and folded his arms, staring down at House with an almost pleading look.

"I have other legal matters to attend to. I won't fill out a DNR now. Who do you think will take the best care of my instruments?" He asked with raised eyebrows, and Wilson threw his hands in the air and left the office. House watched him go, then stood up. He put the films under his bad arm and grabbed his cane. He stopped by the outer office and stuck his head in and said, "I'll be right back. Don't kill anyone while I'm gone."

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

"I'm taking a vacation," House said as he entered Cuddy's office. She looked up at him from her desk, her eyes wide with worry. He waved the films animatedly as he continued, "I am going to need to take a few weeks to recoup anyway. I'm going to ask Wilson out, see if he'll go with me on a romantic getaway to Paris."

"Does that mean your lungs are clear?" She asked, standing up and grabbing the films from his hand. She held them up against the window for light. "Good. I -"

"How did you know about my lungs? I mean, before I told you this morning. You never asked me what was wrong with my lungs, or why I'd be getting them checked." House interrupted her, raising his eyebrows curiously. "It could only have been Wilson."

Cuddy stared at him, contemplating, before she handed the films back to him. "He wanted my opinion, that's all."

"We are _so _having separate rooms in Rome."

"I thought it was Paris?"

House shrugged and pulled the films from her hands. "It's Friday, right? I'll do some clinic today and tomorrow. I want my vacation to start on Wednesday. For two weeks."

Cuddy sat down at her desk and flipped open a planner and rifled through the pages. She nodded and looked up. "You don't have to do clinic until you get back. No point in compromising your health before you go on vacation. Should I schedule time off for Wilson, too?"

"I'll get back to you on that." House turned and limped out of the room, back into the clinic. He scratched the back of his head, under his beanie, and made his way to the elevators to go back up to his office.

When he reached his floor, he went to Wilson's office instead of his, and knocked on the door with his cane before pushing the door open. Wilson looked up with his phone in his hand, and put up a finger to stop House from interrupting. House sighed loudly, and sat down on the couch, resting his head on the top of the cushion. His body was starting to ache; the drugs were wearing off, and the day was already catching up with him. _Vacation._ He was thinking about where he wanted to go when someone shaking his shoulder made him look up, his vision slightly blurred. He looked at his watch and rubbed his eyes, disoriented and confused.

"What happened?" He leaned forward, his neck and shoulders aching.

"You fell asleep," Wilson said, opening the door to the balcony and propping it open so cool air could flow in. He rubbed his head unconsciously, looking down at House with raised eyebrows. "What's the matter?"

"I..don't know," House's quiet answer didn't really surprise Wilson, but he encouraged House to explain more. "I was disoriented when I woke up. It happened earlier when I woke up after passing out. I'm fine. I wasn't asleep very long, was I?" His shoulder and leg pain told him he was asleep long enough.

"Half an hour. I was in a conference call, and by the time I was able to pause to tell you to leave, you were already out. What did you come in here for?" Wilson walked around his desk and sat down in his chair, sorting through files and picking up a pen to finish reports.

House looked up at him, confused by the question. His mind raced as he tried to remember the minutes leading up to him falling asleep, and finally he said, "I think I wanted to ask you out for a romantic vacation."

"You _think_? Are you having second thoughts about us?" Wilson asked, raising his eyes long enough to give him a sad frown before turning back to his paperwork. "Do you still have the fever? How is the pain in your leg and shoulder?" House reached into his pocket to get his pills out, and frowned when his pockets were empty. He looked up as Wilson started shaking a bottle in his hand, his head still bent over his paperwork. "I took them when you passed out before your MRI. I've taken it upon myself to monitor your drug intake."

A headache built in House's temples and he massaged the insides of his eyes slowly. He took steadying breaths, telling himself to calm down, to not get angry, that it wasn't a big deal. Without looking up, he said, "can I have some pills? I'm in a lot of pain right now."

Wilson opened his desk and pulled out an instant ice pack and tossed it at House before picking up his pen again. "I'll give you some after you ice your shoulder for 15 minutes."

"You're joking." House stared at Wilson until the other man looked up and shook his head. "You look stupid with no hair."

"You look like a sickly newborn," Wilson said smoothly, and closed a file. "15 minutes House. Ice the shoulder, take a walk to your office. Thirteen came by looking for you. If you start to get disoriented or dizzy, come back here and take the day off on the couch. Where are we going on our vacation?"

"Maybe I'm detoxing and that's why I'm dizzy. Maybe you should give me my Vicodin now," House raised his eyebrows, then grunted when Wilson stared back blankly. "_We _aren't going anywhere."

"Oh, now I'm being punished for caring. My heart!" Wilson's hand came up to his chest and he feigned a sob. He smiled at House. "We can go see your mom."

House snorted and stood up from the couch, gripping his cane, feeling unsteady on his feet. He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, then looked at Wilson with narrowed eyes. "We aren't going to talk to my mom about this. We don't need to see her. A few weeks on my couch is the best vacation I can think of."

"Maybe a week on the couch to recuperate is a good idea," Wilson agreed, standing up from his desk and coming around, his eyes full of concern. House watched him uneasily, and swatted his hand away when Wilson reached up. "Stop moving." He raised his hand and touched his wrist to House's forehead. "It's not as bad as it was earlier. So a week at your place, and a week in ... Vegas?" Wilson waggled his eyebrows and House couldn't stop himself from smiling briefly.

"Let's talk about it later. I assume I have a patient since they actually looked for me."

"Take it easy, House. Chemo gets harder the further into it you go. If you pass out again, I'm checking you in," Wilson said, his face very serious. House rolled his eyes and pulled the office door open, slamming the door shut behind him dramatically. He popped the instant ice bag and put it on top of his shoulder before walking down the hall toward his own office.

Wilson watched House walk away from his window beside the door, and let out a long, shaky breath. He went around his desk and searched for House's file. Carefully, as if it may explode if moved too quickly, he opened the top of the folder and started looking through the papers. The test results from the last 4 days of chemo, from when he'd drawn blood every morning to check against the day before, to determine if House's good cells were being killed off and putting him at risk for infection. House hadn't asked to see the test results himself, and Wilson wasn't going to show them to him if he didn't question it. His test results were within normal range, but with the cough and fever development, he wasn't sure if House was getting worse or better.

He rubbed his eyes with the heel of his hands and let out a frustrated growl. If House got worse.._well, that would be the end of it. He wouldn't start alternative treatments. He wants to draw up a will and a DNR_. Wilson's stomach rolled at the thought, and he blinked against the burning in his eyes. _I can't tell him. _

"Why can't I tell him?" He whispered to himself, staring down at the test results in the folder. The only good news he had at the moment was House's lungs were clear of tumors, so at least the cancer wasn't that bad.

_I told Amber she was dying_. Wilson's heart shattered for the millionth time at the thought of Amber. _I can't go through that again._ Wilson shook his head, internally struggling with the position he was in. _I can't tell House if he's still sick in four days. I can't _not _tell him, either. I'm his doctor, and his friend._ Wilson put his head on top of his folded arms on his desk and tried to steady himself and his thoughts. _I can't sit by and watch him die, holding his hand until his last breath._ Tears burned his eyes again, and he took a deep breath, trying desperately to calm his emotions. _Do I tell him he's okay, when he's not? If he's going to let himself die anyway by signing a DNR, does it matter if I tell him the truth?_

It did matter. And he knew it. But his mind was racing, and he was thinking about House wanting to go on vacation with him. _Could we go on a vacation with this hanging over our heads?_ _We wouldn't even go, if he knew. His last months alive will be full of pain, at this hospital. He deserves a vacation, even if he thinks he's healthy and fine._

_Could I live the rest of my life knowing that I'd lied to him to get one last good memory with him, and vice versa?_

Wilson lifted his head from his arms and pounded his fist into his desk as hard as he could. The pain pulled his attention from his thoughts to the pain in his hand, and he could see clearly again.

"No decisions until after chemo is complete," he told himself firmly, closing House's file and placing it in the middle of a pile of other patient folders. "For all I know, he'll be in remission this time next week."

_Too bad I deal with cancer enough to know that's too much to hope for_ he thought sadly as House came back into the room, bitching about his shoulder and leg and tossing the ice pack in the garbage can beside Wilson's desk. Wilson forced a smile onto his face, hoping House couldn't read him well enough to know he was a big fat liar. He knew House could see through anything, though.

"15 minutes wasn't so bad, was it?" Wilson asked, clearing his throat and picking up the Vicodin bottle. He poured two into his hand and gave them to House.

"Don't patronize me," House snapped, and swallowed the pills while turning back to the door to leave again. "I'll be back in an hour to get more."

"We'll see," Wilson said and forced himself to move onto other cases as the door shut behind House a second time. _Shit_.


	14. Chapter 14

They had been silent on the drive to the apartment after work, Wilson preoccupied with his thoughts of House maybe not getting better, and House sulking about his team. A few times he'd mutter something under his breath and tighten his arms around his body, but Wilson couldn't drag himself out of his thoughts long enough to talk to him.

At one point during the drive, House smirked a little and said, "remember when you kidnapped me to take me to my dad's funeral?"

"No. Can you refresh my memory?" Wilson asked, flipping on his turn signal and slowing down at a light. "Oh, wait. Not the funeral where you stole his DNA?"

"That was the coolest thing you've done for me in a while," House said, ignoring Wilson's remarks.

"Yes. I see why it was totally bitchin' to have to drug someone to put their father to rest." House went quiet after that, and they were silent for a few minutes before Wilson sighed. "_Why _was that cool?"

House shrugged, staring out the passenger window, looking slightly depressed. "You said you weren't doing it because you cared."

"I'm sure your heart pitter-pattered at the thought of me caring."

House sighed and fell silent again. Neither spoke until they got to the house, and Wilson told him he was going to get food, then left. House watched the car drive away and frowned.

Once inside his place, House went into the bathroom and took a shower. The pressure of the water hitting his shoulder hurt, but he leaned his good arm against the tile and let the warm water hit his injury for a few minutes anyway. The pain was keeping him grounded. Something wasn't right with Wilson, and House was never one to ask him what was wrong. Even if he did get the courage to ask, he didn't know if he wanted to hear what he had to say. He could just be tired, or upset about a patient. Or be upset _and _tired with a patient named Greg House. The last thought was what made him decide that he didn't want to know; if something was wrong with him, he'd want to know, and he knew Wilson would tell him (plus, he was going to demand his patient file tomorrow anyway). So if his cancer wasn't getting worse and that's not what was bothering Wilson, House had a bad feeling that Wilson was just getting _tired_ of House.

_That's why I can't open up to anyone. They are tired of me when I'm not open._

His stomached knotted when he was washing his body and scalp and watched pieces of his hair go down the drain. And not just the fuzz from his head, either. He was starting to look like a prepubescent boy below, and the hair on his arms was gone. He scrubbed his face and groaned when he saw his hands covered in facial hair. _Don't let my eyebrows go, at least._ _That _was not something he would be able to deal with.

By the time the water went cold, House had scrubbed every part of his body until his skin was red and raw, making sure every last piece of loose hair was gone. He felt numb inside, staring at his arms and legs in the cold water. Chemo sucked as it was, but to lose all of his hair, all over his body, was the worst part of it all.

He dried off the best he could and slipped on his boxers and pajama pants. He stared at his reflection in the foggy mirror, and almost punched the glass when he saw his eyebrows were thinning. The TV was on in the living room, which meant Wilson was back and quite some time had passed. With a sigh and a mental prep talk, he opened the drawer in the counter and pulled out an elastic bandage and walked out of the bathroom slowly.

Wilson looked up from the couch and his professional doctor face slid easily into place. House stopped behind the couch, staring down at Wilson uncomfortably.

"I've lost most of my hair," he said quietly, and Wilson nodded sympathetically. "Wanna see the birth mark that I got from my real dad?"

"Why are you doing this?" Wilson asked, moving over on the couch as House started to sit down beside him. He took the wide elastic bandage from House's hands. "Why are you bringing up your dad and your sperm donor?"

"Am I going to die?" House blurted out quickly, not meeting Wilson's eyes. Wilson sucked in a sharp breath and mentally kicked himself for not acting normal on the drive home. "Don't tell me. I don't want to know."

"Your blood work is in normal range," Wilson said slowly, piecing his thoughts together as quickly as he could. "You aren't getting worse."

House nodded, accepting the answer, and leaned forward to pick up an unopened bottle of beer from the table. He opened it with a wince and drank nearly half of the bottle before saying, "when we do the tests after my treatment is done..I don't want to know the results."

Wilson's mind was racing. He didn't know what to say. He certainly didn't want to _encourage _House's decision, because suddenly he thought House **needed **to know what was in store for him, if it got to that point. At the same time, he felt relief - if House _did _get worse, and Wilson decided to lie and say he was better..it worked out for him if House didn't want to know the truth.

Finally, the moral, logical side of him won. "You need to know the results. Whether you need a second round of chemo or not, you need to know if you're better or worse. You can't live not knowing what's going on inside your own body. Even if you decide to...to fill out a DNR, you should know."

"What's the point of knowing? That's the worst thing anyone can go through. Ignorance is bliss in this sense. I've never thought about it really, you know, not until this week. But those few patients we have, where we know they're going to die, and they know...." House trailed off, silently berating himself. _Those patients like Amber, who spend their last minutes saying good-bye. _Wilson was still beside House, his eyes downcast. House had an urge to put his arm out, to apologize, but he didn't.

"It's horrifying," Wilson said finally, his eyes still locked on his lap, his voice full of sorrow. "To be told you only have a few hours, or a few days, to live. If you aren't better, and we find out next week, you'll have months before you need to say your good-byes. You could quit Princeton, go see the world, or at least the country."

"Tell you what," House nudged Wilson with his elbow, his shoulder shooting painfully at the movements. Wilson looked up, pain and tears in his eyes, and House's heart nearly broke seeing it - much to his embarrassment. "We do the tests, but look at the results after our vacation."

Wilson nodded, not trusting his own voice, gripping the rolled bandage in his hands. When he was able to speak, he said, "that sounds like a good compromise. That's unlike you."

"I.." House struggled for words, but came up with nothing except, "I hate to see you like this." He laughed at himself nervously. "That was gay."

"Don't do this for me, Greg. This isn't about me. This is _your _health, and _your _life. If you don't want to know, you shouldn't find out for anyone but yourself."

"You didn't have a problem asking me if I'd finish chemo for you," House raised his thinning eyebrows in mock surprise. "And..I would like to know, I think. At least run the tests. We'll figure out what to do about it after Hollywood."

Wilson laughed. "Do you want to go to Hollywood in the winter?"

"Babes are still babes in cold weather. Who knows, they may be sexier in cold weather, especially if they don't believe in wearing a bra," House grinned when Wilson shook his head. He watched as Wilson's grip on the rolled bandage eased, and he cleared his throat. "Can you wrap my shoulder up with that? I can't keep my arm in that sling anymore tonight."

Wilson stared down at the bandage for a moment, then physically shook himself as if coming out of a daze. He smiled at House and started to unroll the bandage. He looked at the shoulder, wincing at the purple and black bruises all over his upper arm and the top of his back.

"Did you get some heat on it in the shower?" He asked as he started winding the bandage around House's upper chest and arm.

"Yes, pa."

"Put some ice on it in about 30 minutes. The swelling seems to be a _little _better from this morning." Wilson carefully pinned the bandage near the shoulder and made sure it wasn't too tight. House bent his arm at the elbow, testing out the bandage, making sure his shoulder was as immobile as he could get it.

"What'd you get for dinner?" House asked, changing the subject and leaning forward to start digging through the take out bags.

"Barbecue. What did your team do to put you in a bad mood on the drive home?" Wilson leaned forward as well, pulling out styrofoam boxes and a huge pile of napkins. He opened the lids and barbecued ribs and chicken glistened back at them. House pulled out small disposable bowls with potato salad and cole slaw and took the lids off. Wilson handed him a disposable fork and they started taking bites of the food eagerly. House was _starving_.

"They brought up the AML once we got our patient squared away. Foreman still doesn't really believe it. Thirteen is making doe eyes at me, like we're suddenly soul mates because we're both sick. Taub and Kutner kept asking questions and they wanted to run tests on me," House chuckled and started coughing, covering his mouth with a napkin. He swallowed the food down with a sip of beer and kept eating. "Chase came by to see me, too. He told me, and I quote, 'If you are going to die from this, I want you to write a recommendation letter for me because I want your job'."

"_Chase _said that?" Wilson asked, stunned. He wiped his face with a clean napkin and took a bite of cole slaw from the bowl House was holding. "Of all the doctors that have worked for and with you all of these years, _Chase _is the last one who I'd recommend for your job."

"Then Cameron called me and yelled at me for making her girlfriend cry. Okay," House shrugged with the look Wilson gave him. "She didn't say he _cried_."

"She called you to bitch at you when her insensitive fiance asked for a recommendation if you are dying? There's more to this story." Wilson raised his eyebrows when House chortled into his rib and had to take another drink of his beer to stop from choking.

"Use your imagination."

Wilson shook his head and smiled to himself. They fell into a comfortable silence, with the TV on - an episode of ER that House had apparently recorded - and Wilson got lost in his thoughts. If House died tomorrow, the memory of tonight wouldn't be a bad one to carry with him for the rest of his life.

"I'm not feeling right," House said minutes after they both stopped eating. Wilson looked over at his friend, who was looking paler than he did five minutes before. He reached his hand out and felt his forehead and frowned.

"You're burning up again. Do you have any Tylenol?" Wilson asked, standing up from the couch, clearing the table as he moved. House nodded and put his head on the back of the couch, closing his eyes. "Do you need any Vicodin? You should probably take some and go to bed."

House nodded again and Wilson reached in his pocket for the pills as he walked into the bathroom to get the Tylenol out of the medicine cabinet. He glanced at the bathtub when he walked in and felt a pang of sympathy as he looked at hair that didn't go down the drain. _God, House_, he thought sadly, and went back out to the living room.

"Have you been wearing the face mask in the hospital and clinic like I told you to?" Wilson asked, handing three Vicodin and two Tylenol to House. He took all of them at once, washing it down with his beer, not opening his eyes.

"Once." House answered, then put his hand in front of his mouth to stifle a yawn. He closed his eyes again as Wilson reached down and felt his forehead a second time.

"You must've gotten sick again at the hospital. Come on, let's go to bed," Wilson held his hand out and House opened his eyes to look at it briefly before gripping his hand and allowing himself to be pulled up. Wilson followed House to his bedroom, prepared to catch him if he needed to. House crawled under his blankets with another yawn and dropped onto his stomach, suddenly exhausted.

"Make sure you lock the door before you go to bed," House mumbled, his eyes closing slowly. "I'm not well enough to defend you if someone breaks in during the night."

Wilson smiled at the joke on his behalf and closed the door to House's room. He sighed, rubbing his forehead and checked his watch. It was almost 9, which was still relatively early for House. Concern gnawed at him as he went out to the living room to clean up their dinner; it took ten minutes for House to go from laughing and animated to passing out in his bed. It wasn't uncommon for cancer patients to get so tired, but it was uncommon for _House _to be that tired, that quickly. He pushed the concerned thoughts to the back of his mind and unbuttoned his shirt, preparing himself for bed.

* * *

Thank you so much for your reviews. The more reviews I get, the faster I post. I don't have a problem updating twice in one day :)


	15. Chapter 15

"So are we really going out of town?" Wilson asked the next morning as they drove to work. House was slouching in his seat without his seat belt ("I'm already dying. What does it matter?" House had said), with his arms folded awkwardly across his chest. He had his head against the side of the car and his eyes closed. Wilson turned the heat up another notch when he saw House shivering.

"Sure. I don't want your only memories of me to be of me at work or on the couch," House answered, his speech every so slightly slurred. Wilson pursed his lips, hoping the slur was from House doubling up on pain medications and being tired.

"One, _please_ don't talk like that. And two, I'll have plenty of memories of you doing other things," Wilson said as he glanced in his rear view mirror, changing lanes.

House snorted softly, opening his eyes briefly to look over at Wilson. "Such as?"

"There are all of the times we spent driving to work together. And that funeral trip." Wilson smiled when House snorted again. "Do you realize that you've done more with Cuddy than you've done with me?"

House burst out laughing and struggled to sit upright, turning his head to look at Wilson mischeviously. "We can change that," House smirked and gave Wilson a wink.

"You know what I mean. We hang out more, but you've gone places with her. You've gone to her house more than you've been to mine."

"Are you jealous?" House raised his eyebrows and shook his head, amazed. "Half of the time you don't even want people to know we're friends. Hell, _most _of the time you think of me, you try to talk yourself into dumping me. Don't you deny it, either. At least I'm consistent in this relationship." House sagged back into the seat and crossed his arms again, closing his eyes to _maybe _get a full minute of sleep. "But I guess you can't help who you love, huh?" House snickered, then grunted when Wilson punched him on the top of his thigh.

They were quiet for the last five minutes of the ride, and when they pulled up to the hospital, House instructed Wilson to park in his handicap space.

"I'm too tired to walk from your spot," House said, grabbing his cane and pushing open the car door as Wilson cut off the engine. Wilson watched House for a moment, torn between being his doctor and friend. His friend side wanted to rush House and make sure he was okay, run tests and try to figure out why House was so uncharacteristically tired, why he had a fever, and why he was having the neurological problems. The doctor part of him _knew _that it was the cancer treatment, and the doctor side convinced him to keep his mouth shut about it.

Wilson had spent the day before arranging his schedule so that he could sit with House during treatment today. Guilt was eating at him, even if he didn't show it; House _needed _him around, whether he admitted that or not. Aside from the first day of chemo, Wilson hadn't spent much time with House during treatments - or even after treatments, aside from when House was inspecting the porcelain on the toilets. Their relationship seemed to be getting more stable, and House seemed to be doing better mentally, but the last thing he wanted was to misread House and find out he overdosed when he'd been alone.

House checked in with the nurse in the treatment room, and pulled out his iPod. He followed the nurse as Wilson walked away to get the IV tubes and medication. He briefly smiled and nodded at a patient sitting in a recliner with tubes wrapped around her arm, and sat down carefully. He'd taken three Vicodin this morning before he left, hoping it would help if - _when _- he got sick later.

"Can I join you today?" Wilson asked when he came back. He hung the IV bags on the hooks and pulled on rubber gloves. He pulled an alcohol wipe from his pocket and cleaned off a spot on House's arm to insert the needle for the IV.

"It's an hour of super boring _nothing _going on," House answered, watching Wilson expertly slide the needle into his vein. He barely felt it. "I've got my music."

"You can listen to your music. I've got some paperwork to catch up on. I'll just sit right here beside you, if you don't mind," Wilson said, adjusting the flow rate of the IV before looking down at House.

House shrugged. "I don't care. It's your department."

The two friends settled back into the uncomfortable recliners. Wilson opened a file on his lap, with a pen in his hand, and stared at the pages blankly. He risked a glance at House and saw he had his beanie pulled over his eyes and the earphones were deafeningly loud - Wilson could _almost _make out the words from his seat. With a sigh, he turned back to his work, forcing himself to focus.

Halfway through House's treatment, Wilson was crouched beside the recliner, holding a cup of water in his left hand and absently rubbing House's back with his other hand. House was groaning into a bucket on his lap, sweat trickling down his face. The beanie had been tossed to the floor in an effort to keep his body cool.

"He's got a high fever," Wilson said to the nurse who was replacing the dirty bucket with a new one. "Can you get some saline and acetaminophen?" Wilson stopped rubbing House's back and pushed the cup of water into House's hand. House rinsed his mouth and spit the water out, then drank the last of the liquid. "House, how are you feeling?"

"Freezing." House's body shook from the fever, and he raised his hand to the IV in his right arm. Wilson grabbed his wrist.

"Leave it in. Treatment will be done soon, and we're going to give you some fluids."

Before House could answer, he started dry heaving over the bucket, gasping between heaves. "My chest.." he moaned, and gagged on bile. "Fuck, my chest." Wilson looked up at the nurse, who shook her head slightly, her eyes wide. _She's never seen this_.

"What hurts in your chest?" Wilson asked, putting his hand on House's back and his left hand up to his neck to check his pulse. "Deep breaths, House. Where does your chest hurt?"

House raised his hand, which trembled noticeably, and pressed it to the left side of his chest, gasping.

"It's his heart," Wilson said to the nurse, jumping up and pulling the IV from House's arm to stop the medication. His pager started going off and he pulled it off his belt, looking at the screen. "You've got to be joking me. Holly, page Dr. Cuddy and Dr. Foreman _now_. Laura is coding. House needs oxygen," he looked down at House and dropped his pager onto the floor. "Page them **now**. I NEED MORE NURSES!" Wilson yelled over his shoulder as loud as he could. He ignored the other patients hooked up to their chemotherapy treatments, staring at the scene terrified.

Wilson grabbed House's shoulders roughly, ignoring the broken one for the moment, and pulled him off of the chair. He laid him on his back on the floor. House was clutching at his chest now, his eyes wide and his mouth open, struggling for air.

"Relax. Relax," Wilson said, ripping House's shirt down the front, feeling House's neck for his pulse. Less than five seconds later, two nurses were on their knees on the floor, handing Wilson tubes to intubate House. A third nurse was charging the paddles and Wilson grabbed them from her the moment House was bagged. House's eyes had rolled back in his head and his pulse was gone. "Clear," Wilson said, barely waiting for the nurses to pull back before he sent a charge through House's chest. The nurse across from him felt for the pulse and shook her head. "Clear," he growled, sending another charge. Tears burned the back of his eyes and he blinked them away angrily. "Don't do this," he said under his breath when the nurse shook her head again. "Don't you die now. Clear," he sent a third charge, and almost collapsed when the nurse nodded and started forcing air into House's lungs.

"Wilson?" Cuddy gasped, coming into the room with Foreman behind her.

"Go to Laura Reese. She shouldn't die alone," Wilson said dully, staring down at House's unconscious body. He barely noticed the tear that had dropped down his cheek.

Foreman left with a nurse without saying a word. Wilson blinked slowly, and looked up at Cuddy, his body trembling slightly. Another nurse was coming into the room with a stretcher.

"What happened?" Cuddy asked, kneeling beside House and checking his pulse herself. She wiped the sweat off of his face with her bare hand and glanced back at the stretcher that was being lowered to the floor.

"I almost killed him," Wilson answered, another tear dropping down his face. "Shit. Shit, Lisa. He has a history of heart problems. He has a long history of drug use. Shit. I shouldn't have put him on those drugs. Oh, God, he's going to kill me." He scooted back as a young doctor - Wilson couldn't place him immediately - helped one of the nurses lift House onto the stretcher carefully. Wilson looked around the room for the first time and noticed three of his patients trying to avoid the scene by flipping through magazines or their cell phones.

Cuddy pursed her lips and nudged Wilson's shoulder before standing up and leaving the room. Wilson closed his eyes momentarily, trying desperately to calm his pulse and his mind, then he stood up. He picked up his pager and patient files on the floor, and left the room without a second glance at his other patients. Cuddy was waiting in the hallway for him with her arms folded across her chest.

"What do you mean, you almost killed him? You gave him drugs that could have caused heart failure?" Cuddy asked the moment the doors shut behind Wilson. They were alone in the hallway.

"I didn't think of it," Wilson answered, stunned. Not stunned at Cuddy's words, or even her tone - stunned that he'd made such a careless mistake, especially with House. "I'm so used to his drug habit and the heart attack he had in that bus accident..I didn't even think of it, Lisa." He stared at her, silently pleading for her to believe him.

"That was careless," was all Cuddy said before she turned on her heel and stormed down the hallway. Wilson watched her walk away with a sinking feeling in his gut. He forced his legs forward, his body numb, not knowing where he was going. The one place he knew he couldn't go was wherever House was. Not yet, anyway.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

The first thing House noticed when he woke up was that he was _once again _in a hospital bed. The second thing he noticed was the tube in his throat, and he started gagging on it. He looked up at Cuddy as she calmly pulled the tube from his mouth and tossed it onto the table beside the bed carelessly.

"What..?" He croaked, then swallowed painfully. Cuddy handed a cup of water to him and he gratefully drank it, spilling some of the liquid down his chin and onto his chest. "What happened?" He asked, wiping his face.

"You had a heart attack during chemo earlier," Cuddy answered coldly. House stared at her, confused, and saw that her eyes were swollen and red. He frowned.

"What's with the tude, doctor?" House asked just as coldly, his mind racing. _A heart attack? _ He barely remembered even going to treatment.

Cuddy sighed and sat down beside his bed and put her head in her hands. He watched her momentarily before closing his eyes and turning his head from her. That was the _last _thing he needed to see.

"I'm sorry. I've been really scared," she said quietly behind her hands. He didn't turn to look at her. "Your heart stopped twice. Once during chemo, and again after we got you in here."

"Where's Wilson?" House turned his head and opened his eyes to stare at Cuddy expectantly. She shook her head sadly.

"I don't know. I can't find him."

House clenched his jaw and closed his eyes again. _Figures. He did get fed up with me being sick. He's not even here_. The thoughts raced through his mind, and he kept trying to think clearly, to think about his current problems, and he couldn't.

"I'm sorry," Cuddy said again, closing her hand over House's. He jerked his hand away. "We think your Vicodin use has damaged your heart, and the chemo drugs Wilson had you on caused the heart failure. Foreman did an ultrasound on your heart earlier, and he said everything looked fine, but we wanted to do another ultrasound when you woke up. For a second opinion." She smiled softly. "You're still the best consult we could have."

"Find Wilson. I need to have a consult with his face."

Cuddy sighed and nodded. "I'll find him, I promise. Just take it easy. Don't overdo it, please."

"It doesn't matter if I overdo it or not," House said as he started to sit up in the bed. He pulled off the heart monitor and put his feet to the floor. "I'm going to go find Wilson myself."

"No." Cuddy firmly put her hands on House's chest, and he looked down at her, trying as hard as he could to make himself look menacing. _I probably look pathetic_. "You _need _to rest. Your body is as weak as your heart right now. Just lay back down. I'll find Wilson for you."

House pushed her hands away from his chest and he leaned heavily on the bed with his good arm and forced himself off the bed. He grabbed the IV pole and pushed it forward, wincing with each step. Apparently, he wasn't allowed to have pain meds, or a very high dose anyway.

By the time he was in the hallway, with Cuddy following and admonishing him, his chest was tight with the effort. His pulse was racing, and he _knew _he needed to get back in bed. He kept going through the ICU, shuffling as quickly as he could.

"Get back to your room!" Foreman said from the other side of the hall, pushing folders at a nurse and rushing forward to stop House. "What do you think you're doing?"

"I'm doing what nobody else has the balls to do." House forced himself to take deep breaths, to stay calm. He spotted an elderly man with an oxygen tank a few feet away, holding a mask to his face. "I need this more than you do," House said to the man, grabbing the mask from him and putting it to his face. He looked back at Cuddy and said, "you need to push the tank for me."

"No. No, you _need _to go back to your room," Foreman grabbed the IV pole and stopped it from moving further. Cuddy pulled the oxygen mask out of House's grip and gave it back to the elderly man with apologies. "We aren't playing games today, House. You're sick and you need to go to your bed."

House shook his head, relieved that the tightening in his chest had let up a bit with the oxygen. He glared at Foreman for a long moment before Foreman sighed and said, "at least let us get you a wheelchair."

"I'm _fine_." House insisted, and started pushing the pole toward the elevator. "Where have you _not _found Wilson? I assume you looked in his office and the balcony."

Cuddy and Foreman exchanged looked and Cuddy said, "I'm going to go get you oxygen, House." before she took off. Foreman stepped up beside House.

"Are you trying to grope me?" House asked, jamming the elevator button to go up. "Or are you going to answer me?"

Foreman didn't move away, standing ready to catch House if he dropped. "He's not in his office, or the balcony. His car is still here, in your handicap spot. He was in the Oncology ward about two hours ago, after your first heart attack, but he hasn't been around and nobody knows where he went."

They stepped inside the elevator and House pushed the button for the top floor. Foreman raised his eyebrows, but didn't say anything until he saw Cuddy rushing toward the elevator with a portable oxygen tank. He held the door open for her and she came in quickly.

"Here. Put this on if you insist on walking around," Cuddy snapped, handing tubes to House. He put them around his face and in his nose and sighed softly in relief. His lungs were burning.

Nobody spoke on the ride up to the top of the hospital. Cuddy put her fingers on House's neck twice to check his pulse, and he didn't have the energy to yell at her. He just wanted to find Wilson.

They were on the top floor in only a minute, and House pushed the IV pole forward. He gripped it in his hand as if it were the only thing holding him up - it pretty much was. His chest was starting to hurt when he got to the old locker room at the end of the hall - nobody used it anymore, except for maybe the janitors to keep supplies and fill up water buckets.

"Stay out here. I'll yell if I pass out," House said to the two doctors, and awkwardly pushed the door open and dragged the IV pole inside. Cuddy hung the small oxygen tank on a hook on the pole and patted his back.

* * *

I'm loving the reviews guys :)

If anyone is interested, I'm looking for a beta. I've written chapter 16 and I'm not satisfied with it, so I need someone to give me honest opinions and maybe help me out a bit.


	16. Chapter 16

Disclaimer: I own nothing except the plot :)

Thanks to my beta, ShaiWatson. She's awesome.

* * *

House walked past the first few rows of lockers until he came up to the fourth row and stopped, leaning against the IV pole, and stared at Wilson, who was sitting on the black bench. Wilson looked up in response to House's heaving breath. He stared back, his back stiff and eyes bloodshot and swollen.

"You're an idiot," House said quietly, breathing in as deeply as he could when the oxygen shot out of the tube. Wilson just stared blankly in response. "Why are you up here? You haven't come up here in years."

"I didn't think anyone knew I'd come up here. I couldn't leave the hospital," Wilson answered, dropping his eyes to the floor and turning his back.

"Why not? Why couldn't you leave? You already abandoned me, so it'd be no surprise to anyone if you walked out of here too." House took another deep breath, trying to slow his pulse.

"I didn't—Why are you up here? You should be in bed," Wilson stood up and came forward slowly. "Just go back to your room."

"Why did you put me on those medications?"

Wilson shook his head slowly and shrugged. "I don't know. I didn't consider your Vicodin addiction. I'm so used to it that it's a part of you, and it didn't even cross my mind. It was stupid of me."

"I could have died. Where were you?" House asked, his voice low and empty. His chest was starting to hurt, and he sagged against the pole to stay upright. Wilson's hands appeared on his arms to hold him up. The quickness of the support made him raise his eyes to Wilson's.

"You almost died. Twice! I couldn't do it. I couldn't sit by and watch you die." Wilson's eyes filled with tears and he backed away from House, quickly averting his eyes to the floor. House felt his legs starting to give out, and he dropped onto the bench. "You need to go _now_. Get back to bed."

"Not until you stop being a fucking child," House snapped, raising his fingers to his neck to check his pulse. His heart was hammering in his chest painfully, but he kept his eyes locked on Wilson, waiting.

"I'm sorry." Wilson whispered, and he wiped his eyes in agitation. "I'm sorry I'm too weak to do this."

"You should be sorry. What kind of doctor are you?" House's eyelids drooped, but he forced them open. "What kind of _friend_ are you? You give me the wrong meds -"

"YOU'RE A DOCTOR TOO!" Wilson yelled, his head snapping up to stare into House's eyes. "You knew what I was giving you! Cameron knew! Cuddy knew! Not one of you even questioned it!"

"We shouldn't be questioning you. You should have.." House trailed off as his chest tightened, and he realized he should have gone back to bed a while ago. Wilson immediately dropped to his knees and had his fingers on House's neck and forehead. "I'm fine. Stop."

Wilson shook his head, getting back onto his feet. "You're not fine. Your heart is going to give out again if you keep pushing yourself. Stop doing this. What are you trying to prove? That you don't care about your health? Well, congratulations, you've finally proven it to me: you don't care about anything." Wilson disappeared around the lockers and House heard the door to the room open. "He needs a wheelchair."

House had his head between his knees when Wilson came back. He was taking deep breaths, his mind screaming at his body to calm down. Wilson didn't move toward him, just stood there watching.

"I just..wanted you to..be there," House said between gasps of air, and he raised his head slowly. He met Wilson's eyes. "You're my doctor, and my friend, and you weren't there."

"I'm sorry," Wilson closed his eyes and stepped back when Foreman came up beside him with a chair. "You're right, I should have been there. I'm being selfish."

House only nodded and let Foreman grab his arm to help him into the wheelchair.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

"What's that right there?" House asked, pointing at the screen while Foreman held the ultrasound wand on his chest.

"I don't think that's anything," Foreman said, moving the wand a little to get a better view. "No, it's nothing. Your heart looks good, considering you just had two heart attacks."

"Cardiomyopathy. Heaving for five days, being on those chemo meds and the Vicodin put too much stress on your heart," Cameron explained, not looking away from the screen while Foreman continued to look at the heart. House turned his head from the screen and closed his eyes. "You should get some rest."

"I want a full body scan," House said, keeping his eyes closed. He was too tired to open them to give the two doctors eye contact. "I want to know if I have any tumors anywhere that could be doing this to me. Those meds I was on very rarely cause heart failure, and I want to know if Wilson did or didn't screw up."

Foreman took the wand off House's chest and shut off the ultrasound machine, then carefully wiped House's chest with a tissue. House turned his head and forced his eyes open briefly.

"I'll schedule one for tomorrow morning when you're feeling better," Foreman assured House, and House nodded in agreement. Sleep dragged him under seconds later.

House slept for hours, waking only for a few seconds to see a nurse or someone from his team doing something to his IV or charts before falling back into nightmares. A few times Wilson was sitting beside him and House tried to smile, but he wasn't sure if he ever did.

Whenever he woke from a nightmare, drenched in sweat and clutching his oxygen mask to his face, the images disappeared and he couldn't remember the dreams. Immediately, he'd pass back out into another nightmare, sometimes falling into the one he'd just had.

The first time he woke up and was able to stay awake, the lights in his room were off and it was dark outside. The only light that was on was above his bed. His blanket was twisted around his legs, and sweat made his gown cling to his body uncomfortably. He looked to his left and saw Wilson in the recliner, sleeping. House's eyes turned to the clock on the wall and he saw that it was almost 10. He'd slept for at least 8 hours. He felt even weaker than he had earlier, and it took all of his strength to find his bed controller.

Wilson's eyes shot open and he sat forward at the sound of the bed angling House upright. When he saw House's sharp eyes were awake, he jumped out of the chair and quickly walked to the bed, watching the monitor to check on House's BP and O2.

"I'm starving," House said as he pulled the oxygen mask off his face and tried to adjust the pillows behind his back. "Did you bring me anything to eat?"

"No," Wilson shook his head, moving back to the recliner to sit down. "It's good that you're hungry. What do you want? I'm sure there's a place open."

"I could definitely have a half pound burger, hold the healthy junk." House settled into the lumpy pillows and rubbed his thigh. "I need my Vicodin. My leg hurts."

Wilson watched House silently, struggling hard to keep his emotions in check. He took a deep breath and said, "We can't give you any Vicodin until we know for sure what's happening with your heart. The only thing that is safe enough right now are maybe sleep medication and maybe fentanyl if your pain gets that bad. It's pain medication for cancer patients, but your heart is too weak."

"What do you have me on now? I feel the pain, but it's not unbearable."

"Cameron put you on morphine hours ago. It's probably wearing off now. You were having mild reactions to it today. Your breathing got really shallow and your heart rate dropped, and your fever spiked right after. You should be fine now." Wilson glanced at his watch and rubbed his eyes tiredly.

House's eyes fluttered closed and his hand stopped moving on his leg, and Wilson held his breath, prepared to move into action if House stopped breathing. After a few minutes, House opened his eyes again and turned his head to stare back.

"I look like all of the terminal patients in Oncology," House said, not making it a question. Wilson nodded once, not trusting his voice. House was pale, bald and his face was gaunt. He looked like every patient Wilson had ever had in their last days. It tore at his heart. "Are you going to say something or just stare?"

"I'm so sorry I wasn't there when you woke up." Wilson looked away from House's penetrating gaze and cleared his throat. "My patient Laura died today. I freaked when you stabilized and I went to her. She has no family or friends, and I needed to be there for her. I should have gone to you after."

House didn't know what to say, so he kept quiet. He knew Wilson hadn't meant to be insulting, but it didn't change the fact that he hadn't been there when he woke up.

"I'm going to refer you to a new doctor. I screwed up too much with you."

"I should've known what those drugs could have done. You aren't totally at fault," House said quietly, and gave a ghost of a smile when Wilson glanced at him. "I'm still alive. Get over it."

Wilson sighed and put his head in his hands. House looked away, embarrassed. _This is stupid._

"If I wasn't there when you went into cardiac arrest.." Wilson trailed off, unable to finish the thought. House sighed loudly.

"But you were there, and you saved me. You left to take care of your other patient, because I was being treated by other doctors. Don't worry about it. I'm just pissed that I woke up and Cuddy was there bitching at me and twisting the knife deeper and you weren't there to hold her back. Shouldn't I be the one sulking and you comforting me?"

House yawned then, and he closed his eyes. His body started to relax and he wanted to give in and go back to sleep.

"Go to sleep. I'll go find some food for you for when you wake up." Wilson stood from his chair and paused long enough beside the bed to put his wrist to House's forehead and check his vitals before leaving the room. House was asleep before the door shut behind him.

House woke up again a few hours later. It was still dark, and Wilson was passed out in the chair beside the bed. He had his oxygen mask on again, and his back was aching from sleeping upright. There was a bag of baked potato chips on his table with a cup of water. House grimaced, but picked up the bag and opened it weakly. Wilson woke up at the sound.

"That was all I could find to eat here. I didn't want to leave the hospital," Wilson said apologetically, scooting the chair across the room to sit beside the bed. House didn't say anything, just took off his mask and started eating as fast as he could.

"They are _awful_," House said between bites. "They could at least try to make these taste like the fattening ones."

"I can get you a sandwich now that you're awake. I wanted to get something that was _healthier_ and wouldn't go bad if you slept through the night. Whatever you want, I'll go get it."

House watched Wilson's face for a moment before shaking his head. He downed the cup of water on his table and relaxed into the pillows. "You don't need to do anything. You should just go home." He grimaced at the pain in his shoulder; Wilson hadn't lied, they really weren't giving him anything for pain. His leg was tight and burning.

"Do you want me to go home?" Wilson asked, and House heard the hurt in the question. _Maybe he wants to be here._

"Do you really want to spend the night in that recliner?" House retorted, raising his eyebrows. His chest was feeling tight, and he raised the oxgyen mask to his face slowly, trying to be nonchalant. The last thing he needed was to crash again.

"I can unfold it into a bed. I don't mind staying." Wilson smiled faintly, and House nodded, accepting the answer. He closed his eyes, focussing on breathing in the clean oxygen. "Can we talk about your treatment options from here? The last few hours I've been thinking of what you can do."

"I'm not finishing chemo. I went five days, that's enough. Test me tomorrow," House said, looking up at his friend. His eyes were starting to get heavy again. "I'm not doing anymore treatment if the AML is still there. My heart can't take it, and I just can't put myself through this again. This has been the worst week ever."

Wilson smiled sadly and picked at the blanket on the bed. Tears burned his eyes, but he kept his head lowered so House couldn't see. He was torn between helping him and letting him make his own decisions. It was almost as painful as holding Amber when she died.

"We're still going on vacation when I get out of here, right?" House asked, trying to direct the conversation somewhere else. He didn't want to think about his decision, and Wilson was struggling hard with the news. Just keep the conversation light. _Don't involve him anymore._

"Sure. Does this mean you aren't mad at me anymore?" Wilson looked up then, wiping his face roughly. "I don't know how well a vacation will work if we're fighting."

"We're always fighting." House took a deep breath, his chest tightening more. He didn't know if it was from his heart or the emotion in the room. "I'm not mad at you about the medication. You know what you did wrong."

"I didn't do anything _wrong_. I just needed to regroup," Wilson said pathetically, his voice dull. He wasn't going to convince House, and at this point it didn't matter anymore. As long as they were on good terms his last few months…

House nodded and closed his eyes, focusing on his breathing. His chest was starting to hurt more, and he knew the moment his heart monitor started beeping uncontrollably that the emotion in the room certainly wasn't the cause of his tight chest.

"Help me," he said, fighting to sit upright. Wilson put his hands on House's chest, forcing him down as his eyes stared at the screen. "I can't get a full breath. My chest is burning."

"Your O2 is dropping," Wilson twisted the knob on the oxygen tank to get more air flowing. "It's not a heart attack." House pulled the mask off of his face after Wilson's words left his mouth..

"Bag me," he gasped, staring wide eyed up at Wilson, his good hand gripping Wilson's wrist as hard as he could, kicking his legs as he struggled for a breath.

* * *

I am loving the feedback on this story.


	17. Chapter 17

Disclaimer: I own nothing except the plot.

Thanks so much to my super awesome beta, ShaiWatson.

* * *

Wilson sat next to House's bed with his head in his hands, listening to the hum of the oxygen machine that was breathing for House. House was asleep now, after being bagged and given a shot of steroids and something to put him back to sleep.

_Thank God it wasn't his heart_ Wilson thought, happy for the small blessing. The fact that the only problem he was having now was breathing calmed his conscience. _Maybe it wasn't the drugs I put him on. Maybe it wasn't my fault_. He didn't think he'd ever forget that terrified look in House's eyes as he held Wilson's wrist when he dropped the bed to intubate him. _He was afraid to die like that. _Wilson hoped that was another small blessing; if House admitted how afraid he was to die, maybe he'd change his mind about further cancer treatment.

Cameron was working in the ER overnight, and she had been up to the room a few times in the last two hours to check on the two of them. Wilson didn't think he'd be able to sleep again. He had found out that Chase was on call in the OR, which was a huge relief - if House needed emergency surgery, the best person to do the operation was him. Chase had come up once, long enough to see House's vitals himself before bowing out of the room.

"I thought he didn't have tumors in his lungs," Chase had said. "Did we miss something?"

"No. We couldn't have missed anything," Wilson answered numbly. _What if we _did _miss something? God, please don't let him suffer anymore. Let this be nothing_.

Nobody else had been informed. Wilson was going to call Cuddy in an hour or two, when he knew she was up and getting ready for work. She could talk to his team and explain what was going on. At this point, everyone was in on it, and Wilson didn't give a damn if House wanted to keep it a secret anymore. They had come by earlier in the evening, at around 6 when House had been drugged, so they knew he was having heart failure.

A dozen times, Wilson almost pulled his cell phone out to call House's mom. If this was it, she needed to be here with her son. Every time he moved to call her, he talked himself into waiting until House woke up so they could discuss it together. She deserved to know, even if House couldn't see past his selfishness to admit it.

A knock on the door startled Wilson, and he raised his head as the door opened. Thirteen stood in the doorway with her white coat on. Wilson glanced at the clock on the wall and saw that it was 4 AM.

"What are you doing here?" He asked softly as she shut the door carefully and crept into the room. She pulled the wooden chair that sat against the wall beside Wilson and sat down.

"I wasn't able to sleep much last night, and Eric - Foreman - convinced me to just come down. I'm sorry if I'm intruding, I didn't think anyone would be here." She reached out and put her hand on House's tentatively. "He looks worse than when I left earlier. What happened?"

"He couldn't breathe. It wasn't his heart," Wilson said, silently adding _thank God _again. "I'm surprised to see anyone here at this hour. Cameron and Chase came by, but, well..you know him."

Thirteen nodded, moving her hand from House's, then touched Wilson's arm gently. "He needs people more than ever now. I don't hate him."

"You don't like him, either." Wilson didn't mean it accusingly; it was just the truth. Nobody _liked _him, except for himself and Cuddy, and Cameron of course.

"It's...comforting to not be the only one," Thirteen explained, her voice soft. "House is the one who told me to get tested. He's not the nicest person, but he's been decent. Maybe he'll be a little easier to deal with after all of this."

Wilson snorted quietly with a small smile. "Fat chance. The entire hospital could visit him and he'll only get embarrassed and take it out on everyone."

They lapsed into silence, the only sound coming from the oxygen machine and the heart monitor. Once in a while, his heart rate would go up a little, then settle back down. Every time the monitor started beeping loudly, Wilson's pulse picked up, then he relaxed when it went down.

"You're a great friend to him," Thirteen said, breaking the silence after a few minutes. "You're a saint for that."

"He's been a good friend to me." Wilson admonished himself when he felt himself blushing a little. _A saint? For putting up with House? Please._ "I don't know what he'd be doing right now if he didn't trust me."

Thirteen patted Wilson on the shoulder gently and gave him a small smile. "I'm going to call Foreman and update him. Do you need me to talk to Taub and Kutner later?" Wilson shook his head. "I'll be downstairs with Cameron to help out if I can. Page me if you need me." She stood up and left the room after that, and Wilson smiled to himself briefly. She understood House's situation better than the rest of them did, and despite everything House did, and who he was, she was there at 4 AM to check on him. She lost sleep over it, even. It rose his spirits a little, knowing someone could be there for him.

Wilson pushed the chair back a little to lift the leg rest on the recliner. He needed to get at least an hour of sleep if he could. He closed his eyes and reclined in the chair, and listened to the hum of the machines for a long time before he managed to drift off.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Three hours later, at 7 AM, House found himself alone in the room with Kutner and Thirteen. Cuddy had come in an hour before and collected Wilson, to talk to him privately in her office. His team was busy running blood tests in the lab, and were now running lung function tests.

"Breathe into the tube as hard and as long as you can," Kutner instructed House, and he closed his eyes and exhaled into the spirometer. "Keep going," he encouraged, watching the laptop screen on the table next to his bed. Thirteen stood on the other side of the bed, monitoring his vitals.

House sucked in a deep breath and fell back against his pillows, breathing hard. He looked up at Kutner, trying his hardest to ignore Thirteen's stare. He picked up his oxygen mask and put it over his mouth while he waited for the doctor to tell him what his results were.

Kutner looked up at Thirteen and she walked around the bed to look at the screen. House rolled his eyes up at them, gripping the mask, his hand shaking uncontrollably. Sweat ran down his neck uncomfortably.

"We need to do some X-Rays," Kutner said finally, turning the screen around so House could look. "Your lungs are failing."

House moved the face mask long enough to say, "you can't say they're failing after one test." He put the mask back on his face and tore his eyes from the computer screen.

"They're failing because you did terrible on this test and you had to be intubated last night. Pulmonary Toxicity makes sense here. It explains the fever, the cough you've had, and why you're having problems breathing." Thirteen explained, closing the laptop and taking the spirometer from House's lap. "We'll get you up before your full body scan to see if that's what's going on."

"It doesn't explain the cardiac arrest." House stared at the two doctors expectantly, trying to distance himself. He needed to act like this was someone else, or he'd lose it. "What causes breathing and heart troubles, aside from the drugs?"

Thirteen and Kutner shared a brief look before they gave House blank eyes. Kutner was the one who spoke first. "Cardiac arrest could've been from the drugs; they probably were. The lungs aren't a symptom of something larger. This isn't a puzzle. This is your life, and you're having complications from treatment. It's not uncommon."

House sighed and scratched the back of his neck in thought. Thirteen and Kutner stood there for a minute longer, then left when House didn't have anything to add. Once he got his X-Ray and full body scan results back, he would be able to figure out what was going on and prove to them that they were wrong.

He started rubbing his aching leg when his door opened again, and Cuddy came in with Wilson. Wilson looked haggard and Cuddy looked guilty. House had a strong suspicion they had been talking about the future of his job at the hospital after the last day.

"How'd the test go?" Wilson asked, sitting down beside the bed, keeping his eyes from Cuddy's direction. He glanced up a few times to meet House's eyes, then dropped his gaze back to his hands clasped on the bed.

"I failed," House said casually, putting his oxygen mask down on the bed. He relaxed into the bed, keeping his eyes moving between Cuddy and Wilson. She was standing at the foot of the bed with her arms crossed, her back stiff and her face as blank as she could make it. "We're going to do an X-Ray. Kutner and Thirteen think it's Pulmonary Toxicity." His shoulder ached as he shrugged.

"Do you think that's what it is?" Cuddy asked, her tone hopeful. She apparently really didn't want to fire Wilson.

"No. I think it's Tumor Lysis Syndrome. If it's _not_ Tumor Lysis Syndrome, this could still be from a tumor in my heart somewhere." House said, and was momentarily startled when Wilson put his hands on his lower arm. He looked up at Wilson and his stomach rolled; Wilson looked _horrible_. He had only gotten a few hours of _very _interrupted sleep, probably hadn't eaten, and had obviously been crying.

"It doesn't matter what it is. What matters is that you'll take care of it," Wilson whispered, gripping House's arms a little tighter. "Please don't let this kill you. Pulmonary Toxicity or Tumor Lysis Syndrome or kidney failure or _whatever_, please treat it."

House studied Wilson's pleading face, and looked down at his arm, with Wilson's hands gripping him, hesitantly. _I told him I didn't want anymore treatment. But.._ he remembered gasping for air the night before, how painful it was to not get a full breath of air, how scared he was that he wouldn't wake up again. He didn't want to die like that.

"Okay," House nodded once, pulling his arm away from Wilson's grip. Cuddy sighed in relief and touched House's shin carefully. Wilson put his head on top of his folded arms on the bed and let out a shaky laugh. "But.." House waited until he had Wilson's attention, and Cuddy's eyes were hard on his face. "I'm not going through with more chemotherapy. I want you guys to understand that. I'll treat Pulmonary Toxicity if that's what it is, since all I need are steroids. I'll treat Tumor Lysis Syndrome with dialysis if I have to. I'll surgically remove a tumor from my heart if I can. I won't go into chemo or radiation to treat AML though. I won't do a transplant if it comes down to that."

"_Why_?" Cuddy asked, walking over to stand on the other side of House opposite Wilson. She stared down at House with a confused expression, her eyes full of tears. "Why would you let yourself die of AML?"

House laughed softly, and grimaced when it turned into a cough. Pain seared through his shoulder and leg as he tried to calm the coughing. He pulled the oxygen mask up over his mouth again and looked up at her. "Because I'm not dying of it right now. I'm dying of chemo complications."

"If we get the right combination of drugs.." Wilson trailed off, putting his head back on his arms. He sounded resigned, like he was only saying it to keep an argument going out of habit.

"What right combination?" House snapped, starting to get agitated. "I'm sorry you are having a hard time accepting the fact that I-don't-want-treatment. It's not that hard to get. Treating what's going on _now _will prolong my life for a little while longer. I have **nothing **to live for, and you both know that. Here, I'll go through more painful and humiliating treatments so I can go to an empty house every night. Yeah, that makes sense."

"It's your own fault you're going home to an empty house," Cuddy said, shaking her head. House saw different meanings of her words in her eyes. "You could have what everyone has. You never wanted to try. Don't throw that at us now. Don't you dare use it as an excuse for committing suicide. You're unhappy, we get that. You have a drug habit? We look past it to the point that we don't even _question _the possibility of a bad drug reaction when treating you. That's the point it's gotten to, House. You're sad and miserable, and you've pushed us all so hard that we don't even wonder if what we do to you could hurt you. We just do what we have to because you've made it blatantly obvious that you don't care about yourself."

House stared at her, stunned and trying desperately to come up with a snappy retort. "Wait. Did you just put the blame on _me _for you two forgetting that I take prescription medications?" House looked over at Wilson, who raised his head to stare at Cuddy incredulously.

"At least I admitted I was wrong," Wilson said quietly, never blinking when she turned her gaze to his. "You're threatening to fire me over what you're now blaming House on. What in the hell kind of logic is that?"

Cuddy stared at Wilson hard, as if waiting for him to break and apologize. When he didn't back down, she turned on her heel and left the room, holding her head high. She didn't glance back.

House turned his eyes from the door to Wilson's, who stared back, confused. Wilson let out a shaky sigh and said, "I wonder what in the hell that was about?"

"She's mad at me for not doing what she thinks I should do." House closed his eyes and stifled a yawn with his hand.

"She really likes you," Wilson said so quietly that House didn't know if he was supposed to hear it or not. He ignored the words. "When are you having your X-Ray?"

House shrugged and groaned when shooting pains ran down his arm from his shoulder. "Can I please get something for the pain?" He asked through gritted teeth. "I've been dealing with this for hours, and all I've been given was ibuprofen two hours ago."

"Yeah," Wilson rubbed his eyes, glancing at the screens above House's bed. He put his hand on House's arm briefly, and opened his mouth to say something, then sighed and stood up. "I'll get you a _small _dosage of fentanyl. I'm not watching you go into respiratory failure or cardiac arrest because you want to get high."

House glared at Wilson, who just rubbed his neck while he walked out of the room. The moment he was left alone, he dropped the glare and looked at his lap. _It's killing him to sit around and watch this go on. There's no point in prolonging this. _House wondered briefly where his Vicodin bottle was, but Wilson or Cameron probably had it somewhere. _After the tests I'll go home._

After pulling the face mask over his mouth and securing it in place around his head with elastic, he settled back into his pillows and closed his eyes. He focused on breathing in and out, trying to judge just how badly his lungs were failing. When his door opened, he kept his eyes closed, pretending to sleep. He felt the tubes in his arm being moved around while someone - probably Kutner or Taub - injected fentanyl into his IV. The door opened and closed again, and House was alone in the room. He kept his eyes closed, enjoying the feeling of his pain diminishing. As quickly as the medication had taken effect, House was asleep.


	18. Chapter 18

I own nothing. Thanks to my beta ShaiWatson 3

* * *

House heard, rather than saw, panic. He struggled to open his eyes, and it was an effort. Loud voices yelling above him told him something was going _very _wrong, but he couldn't figure out what it was, and everytime he opened his mouth to say something, he gagged. He heard someone say something about Clonazepam, and he started to panic himself. _Seizures. I haven't had chemo for..how long as it been?_

"He's stabilizing," a voice said, and House turned his head in the direction of the voice. _Who is that?_ It sounded so familiar.

"What in the hell is going on?" Another voice he knew, but he couldn't figure it out. He struggled to open his eyes, but he was so tired.

It took everything in him to force his eyes open and try to turn his head to the side to stare at the doctors beside his bed. Recognition clicked when he saw Wilson pacing the length of the bed with his hands locked behind his head, not looking at the bed. Taub was reaching in his pocket, and Kutner was pressing on House's neck, checking his pulse. Taub lifted House's eyelids and he tried to roll his eyes from the light that he started flashing to check his pupils.

"Can you hear me House?" Taub asked, his tone matching his expression; very serious. House nodded, gagging around the tube in his throat. _How many times have I been intubated now?_ Wilson was standing at the foot of the bed, staring at House with a hollow expression. _He's given up. He's ready to accept whatever I decide to do_. "We don't want to pull out the tube until we're absolutely positive that you won't crash again. We aren't sure what's going on right now, and if you have any ideas, please don't hesitate to share with the class." House tried to grimace at the weak joke, then lifted his hand to gesture at the tube. "Are you sure you want it out?" House nodded and closed his eyes as the tube was pulled from his throat. He gagged, then rolled onto his side as the food he'd eaten earlier - _what did I eat?_ - came up from his stomach. The doctors stood back as he noisily vomited on the floor, gasping so hard between heaves that he gagged again.

"He needs to get to X-Ray. We need to find out what's going on with him," Kutner said, and Taub raised his voice slightly to argue..

"We can't get him in there right this second. He's seizing and vomitting, and could probably go into respiratory failure on the way to Radiology!"

"Get 30 milligrams of Prednisone," Wilson said, interrupting them. House rolled onto his back, gasping. His throat burned from the bile, and he was drenched in sweat and shaking again. Something was seriously wrong with him if he was having these symptoms this long after his last treatment. "We'll give him some oxygen for a little while, and give him something to lower his fever. Keep him on Prednisone every 6 hours for today anyway. I'm almost positive it's Pulmonary Toxicity, and oxygen and steroids is the treatment." Wilson stared at the two doctors until they nodded in acceptance. "Get someone in here to clean that up. I'm going to help him brush his teeth."

Once the two doctors were gone, Wilson turned his attention to House.

"Five minutes! I can't leave you for five minutes before you...it doesn't matter. We're going to figure out what's going on, treat you, and tomorrow you can go home and do whatever you're planning on doing. I want to get a bone marrow biopsy today though. If you're not going to do radiation, I want to know how far along your AML is still." Wilson walked around the bed and put his hands behind House's shoulders. "Sit up while I raise the bed up. I'm going to bring some cups and a toothbrush for you."

"What happened?" House asked, struggling to stay upright as Wilson raised the bed upright. Wilson glanced at House briefly, but said nothing. "How long has it been since my last chemo treatment? Why am I still throwing up?"

Wilson bit his lip and closed his eyes, and House averted his gaze when he saw tears fill his friend's eyes.

"It's been 24 hours. There's a chance you have something worse than Pulmonary Toxicity, and if that's the case, damage has been done to organs that will need extensive treatment to get it right again. Being off of chemo for 24 hours isn't going to make everything better immediately. I think the fentanyl caused your seizure, and the vomiting. I shouldn't have given it to you," Wilson rubbed the corners of his eyes with his thumbs. "That stuff is stronger than morphine."

"Didn't you only give me a small amount? How much did you give me?" House struggled to keep his eyes open. He badly needed to brush his teeth. "I need water."

Wilson started, then moved to the table to get a cup and pour water from the pitcher beside it. He held it to House's dry lips and held it while he drank gratefully.

"I only gave you .05 milligrams. It was too much, apparently. I'm going to get my license revoked completely," Wilson said tiredly, looking completely lost. "I don't know what's wrong with me."

House looked up at his friend, confusion evident on his face. He was trying to keep up with what he was saying, but none of it was making sense. "Your license?" He asked weakly as the door opened from the hallway. Taub held two syringes, and a janitor came into the room with cleaning equipment.

"Are you feeling better?" Taub asked, standing aside so the janitor could clean the floor before he gave House his medications. House turned his head to stare at Taub, but his mind went blank. Taub stared back, and his eyes flickered from House to Wilson and back again. "What's wrong House?"

"I'm so confused," House whispered hoarsely, is eyes roaming from Wilson to Taub in panic.

Taub pushed the janitor aside with a brief apology and pulled out his flashlight again. He was flashing the light into House's eyes and saying, "It's very common to be confused and disoriented after a -," when he froze. He looked up at Wilson. "His eyes are yellowing."

Wilson dropped to the chair beside the bed and put his head in his hands. House rolled his head from Taub's direction to Wilson's, and his body went cold when he heard Wilson start to cry. _Yellow eyes..what does that mean again? Yellow eyes..yellow eyes means bilirubin levels are higher..bilirubin is..liver. Liver failure?._ Realization dawned on him, and House sat forward as his stomach rolled and he started throwing up bile again.

"We can't wait any longer. We need to do a CT right now," Taub said, pulling the blanket from House's legs that he'd just thrown up on. Taub jammed his finger in the nurse call button, and when the nurse came to the room he said, "get me a wheelchair and call down to Radiology. Tell them I'm bringing Greg House up now, and it's an emergency."

Wilson stood up and rubbed his eyes and tried to take calming breaths, encouraging House to do the same. "The last thing we need is for you to start hyperventilating," Wilson said softly, and handed House his oxygen mask. They were silent until the nurse came in with a chair, then Wilson was directing Taub on either side of House, helping him walk to the chair and sit down. "How much does he weigh now?" Wilson asked Taub while he walked around the chair to grip the handles and push House. Taub held onto the IV pole to push beside the chair.

"I haven't checked," Taub said, his voice empty. Wilson sighed and turned his attention forward as they approached the elevator.

House groaned in the chair as the elevator lurched, going down. He put his head in his hands and almost whimpered when his shoulder wouldn't move, and shot pain down his arm.

"He needs a liver biopsy," Wilson said softly to Taub while House moaned quietly to himself. "An X-Ray, a CT, a full body scan, a liver biopsy and I need bone marrow to test his AML."

Taub shook his head. "We can't do that much to him today. We don't even need a full body scan at this point. We've narrowed the possibilities down. We should CT his lungs, liver and heart. If we CT the liver and find the problem we won't need to biopsy it. I know you're worried," Taub paused, as the elevator doors opened and Wilson gripped the wheelchair handles and started pushing forward. "You need to start thinking logically. If we panic, we'll lose this patient."

Wilson ground his teeth together to stop from lashing out at the guy. Wilson stopped in front of the doors to the CT room as Taub went inside to prepare the room. Slowly, Wilson came around the chair and knelt in front of House.

"I'm going to be sick again," House mumbled, his head in his hands over his knees. "I'm dying."

"You aren't dying. It just feels like that because you've been through hell the last day," Wilson said gently, putting a hand on House's knee. House raised his head slowly, his eyes taking a few seconds longer than normal to focus on Wilson.

"Call my mom," he whispered, keeping eye contact long enough for Wilson to nod hesitantly. "Tell her what you do know. Don't tell her what you guys are assuming. Tell her she should get here as soon as she can."

"Okay," Wilson promised, feeling eerily calm. All of his begging over the last week held distant feelings; he was giving up like House was. "Is there anything else you need me to do?"

House nodded, eyeing Taub as he came out of the CT room. "Find me a good attorney. One of you should know an excellent Jewish one."

Tears stung the back of Wilson's eyes at the stupid joke, and he stepped back from the wheel chair as Taub grabbed the handles.

"I don't want to see you again until after my mom gets here," House said to Wilson as he started rolling into the room. When Wilson looked confused, he said, "go somewhere and sleep. You're of no use to me when you're exhausted and weepy. And try to slip some amphetamines into Cuddy's coffee so she isn't such a bitch."

"We have to do a bone marrow biopsy after this." Wilson followed House into the CT room. Thirteen stood beside the machine, waiting for House to help him onto the bed.

"I'll make Kutner do it. I don't want you near me until my mom gets here," House reiterated, raising his arms slowly so Thirteen and Taub could help him out of the chair. He looked up at Wilson one more time after he got onto the bed. "Go, Wilson. Mom, attorney, sleep. I would like the attorney here in an hour."

"You want him here before you get your test results from the biopsy?" Wilson asked, rubbing his eyes. He _was _tired.

"It doesn't matter what my results from the biopsy are, I'm still not changing my mind about cancer treatment." House laid back on the bed, his body starting to shake noticeably from the fever.

"You need to stay still in there," Thirteen said as Taub pushed the wheelchair out of the room. Wilson stood still for a moment, watching, before he turned and left. He had errands to run.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

"Can I have something to put me to sleep?" Wilson asked, rubbing his neck nervously. He stood in front of Cuddy's desk an hour later, after getting in touch with a lawyer that Taub knew. The conversation he'd had with House's mom was bad enough that he knew he'd have nightmares if he fell asleep on his own.

"Of course. We'll go into the clinic and get some Ambien," Cuddy said with a small smile. She didn't move from behind her desk, though. Wilson watched her, his gut twisting with each second that ticked by in silence. Finally, she said, "I'm sorry for all of this, James. You are an excellent doctor, and I've never known you to make a mistake. I over reacted."

"You didn't over react. I made a huge mistake."

Cuddy shook her head sadly. "His symptoms don't point to a drug reaction anymore. It's something more. His CT results should be back now. Why aren't you up there with him?"

"He doesn't want me there. He told me to get sleep because he can't deal with me being all weepy." Wilson smiled a little, but it disappeared quickly. "I'm afraid to go to sleep. But I only had maybe three solid hours of sleep last night, and I'm screwing up left and right. What if he's..gone when I wake up?" The words made his mouth go dry. _This is _really _it._

Cuddy smiled sympathetically. "I don't think he's going just yet. If things do start to go down that path...I'll wake you up."

Wilson nodded, and started to move out the doors to the clinic before he stopped and turned to look at her. She was standing up from the desk, getting ready to follow him. "He had me call his mom, and an attorney. Pretty soon, he'll be asking for a priest." He grimaced at the horrible attempt at a joke, but a small laugh left Cuddy's lip and he couldn't help but laugh a little too.

"If he asks for a priest, we'll do some neurological testing." She walked around the desk and approached Wilson. She quickly put her arms around him in a hug, and didn't let go for almost a full minute. Wilson put his arms around her and closed his eyes, taking shaky breaths. "He'll be okay. We'll figure out what's going on. Let's get you some sleeping pills, check out his CT films and tuck you into the on call room."

Minutes later, Wilson was standing in House's hospital room with the rest of his team, Cuddy, Cameron and Chase. House was fast asleep; he'd passed out after his bone marrow biopsy. Kutner had dropped the vials off at the lab, making sure the technicians knew that it was priority. The films were stuck on the illuminator and they all stood around it in a semi-circle.

"It doesn't look like his liver is failing. We can run some blood tests to be sure, but it looks like it's just liver dysfunction from the chemo," Wilson said, pointing at the film of the liver. Everyone nodded in agreement, studying the films carefully.

"His heart looks clear," Kutner said, squinting at the second film. "Cameron was right yesterday when she said cardiomyapathy. His vessels look fine. It would make sense - his heart would be weak with the Vicodin use to begin with. Any chemo drug would put him at risk for cardiomyapathy."

Cuddy smiled at Wilson, who sighed quietly in relief. Two organs down, and no major problems. Things were starting to look up. They were all staring at the lung films in silence, searching for some sign of tumors or fluid pockets or anything that could cause his breathing problems.

"Right there," Cameron startled everyone, and pointed at a spot on the film. "It _is _Pulmonary Toxicity. It explains everything that hasn't been covered. The fever, the cough, the tightness in his chest. Keep him on Prednisone."

'"What about the seizure he had earlier? We should go back and scan his head," Kutner said, looking over at House's bed. He was still passed out, the oxygen mask helping with his breathing.

"We'll keep an eye on him for now," Cuddy answered, her voice firm. "Fentanyl decreases respiration, and he was already having seizures from the chemo. That's why he wrecked his bike a few days ago, remember? If he seizes again, by all means, take him back. For now he needs rest and steroids and oxygen. Don't give him anything for the pain. He'll have to suffer through it until he's well enough to get more tests."

The doctors exchanged looks, and Foreman opened his mouth to argue, but Wilson cut him off. "Someone stay in here and wait until he wakes up. Wake me up when his bone marrow biopsy results are in. His mom should be here in a few hours, and his attorney should be here soon."

After he made sure everyone understood that he would be down the hall, getting some sleep, he left the room. He glanced back at House once, watching his vitals to make sure he was stable, then quietly closed the door and sighed. A huge weight had been lifted off of his chest.

* * *

You guys are awesome for reading and reviewing. I write quickly when reviews motivate me :)


	19. Chapter 19

I own nothing. Thanks to my wonderful beta, ShaiWatson 3

* * *

Wilson drifted in drug-induced sleep. His body rested, immobile, while his subconscious whirled, allowing him rest but not relief. At least the blackness was warm, where he could let sense be made without wanting to scream or cry.

"Wilson, wake up."

Wilson groaned in his sleep and rolled onto his back, blinking groggily into Thirteen's face. Why was Thirteen waking him up? He struggled to remember where he was - the bed was foreign to him. After a few moments, he shot upright. "What time is it? What happened?"

"It's almost 4. Nothing's happened - the biopsy results are back. House's mom is in his room with him, she's been here for about an hour."

Wilson put his feet to the floor, his mind fuzzy. The Ambien hadn't completely worn off yet. "Is he stable?"

"Yes. He's been fine. His breathing is less labored now. He's eaten and kept it down. We drew some blood and his bilirubin levels are a little high, which accounts for the yellowing eyes, but nothing major is wrong. He should walk out of here in the next two days." Thirteen smiled and stepped back as Wilson stood up beside her. He rubbed his eyes and yawned. His eyes were puffy and hurt from all the crying he'd done over the last day. _House had been right to make me go away._

"Did the attorney show up?" Wilson asked, moving toward the door. He scratched his head and smiled to himself; he'd forgotten he shaved his head up until now.

"Yeah. It was...interesting," Thirteen said, waving her hands in a vague gesture. She pulled open the door and they stepped into the hallway. "The biopsy results are on your desk. We're getting ready to move him to the Oncology ward."

Wilson nodded, his thoughts taking forever to form. "Can you bring me some coffee in my office? I'm still groggy."

"Of course." She stepped onto the elevator with him, and they rode down one level and walked off together. "I'll meet you in your office in a minute."

Wilson got to his office a moment later and sat down behind his desk. House's patient file was sitting on top, closed. He stared at it silently, making no move to open it and read what the paperwork inside said. _This is it. _Whatever the results said, House's life would be changed. _If he's still got leukemia. . . _Wilson let the thought trail off. He was tired of the idea. If he was still sick, that was it - nothing he said or did would change House's mind. Wilson wondered briefly if House's mom would do something to convince him to try radiation. I wonder if his body would be able to handle it..

Thirteen knocked on the door and came in with a hot cup of coffee and put it on his desk carefully. She watched him, her sharp eyes intent on his face, silently asking him what was going on.

"I haven't looked yet," he said, picking up the cup and drank it down so quickly he burned his mouth. It was the first real feeling he'd had in hours. "I want to be alone for this. Thanks for the coffee. Can you go tell him I'm looking at the results?"

"Yes. He's being moved right now. He'll be in room 321." With one last searching look, she smiled and left. Wilson stared at the door for a long time after she left, thinking and drinking his coffee.

When his cup was empty, Wilson picked up the folder in both hands and closed his eyes. He took a deep breath, then opened it slowly and began reading.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Once Thirteen left his room, House turned his eyes back to his mom. She was sitting beside the bed, clutching his left hand so tight that he'd lost feeling in his fingers. He didn't tell her to let go; she needed the comfort at this point more than he did. Knowing that didn't stop his heart from trying to tear out of his chest, though. He was scared to get his results.

"What does she mean he's looking at the results? Do you not know them yet?" His mom asked, her voice raising slightly. He briefly closed his eyes and held back a sigh; she was freaking out. "Why didn't you call me a week ago when you got the first results? Greg, this is huge. I deserved to know."

"You didn't need to worry about it. It wasn't that big of a deal until yesterday. I don't know the results, so it'll be a surprise for the both of us," House said roughly, and used his right hand to pry her hands from his body. "You need to relax. Patients come in here all the time with worse problems than I have and walk out of here unscathed. I'll be fine."

"What if you aren't fine? What if your treatment didn't get it all? You didn't finish the medication like you were supposed to." She stared at him accusingly, and he sighed. He'd tried to explain that the treatment was killing him faster than the cancer was, but she wouldn't hear of it. _ 'Medicine is supposed to make you better, not worse' she'd said. _That's what happens when you try to explain things to people with no medical background.

He put his left hand on top of her clasped hands and squeezed as hard as he could. His shoulder felt like it was being ripped apart_. I wish they'd give me some damn Vicodin._ "If the treatment didn't put me into remission - " he hesitated, debating on what he should tell her, then said, "Look, Mom, there isn't much of a chance that I still have cancer. Five days of treatment is better than nothing, and I'll bet it wiped out everything. It wasn't very advanced to begin with."

His mom smiled softly and leaned forward and kissed his temple. He frowned at her, internally kicking himself. The last thing he needed to do was give her false hope, but suddenly it seemed wrong to tell her the whole truth. If even one of his old patients were here right now, they'd call him out in a second for being a hypocrite. But looking at his mom, seeing her so upset, it made him want to lie all the way to his funeral as long as it made her worry less while he died alone.

"In my will, I gave my instruments to you," he said, trying to change the subject. When her eyes filled with tears, he cursed under his breath. _Way to go. Nice change of topic._ "Well, except for my piano. I'm giving that to my old private investigator. He seemed to like it. I don't care what you do with everything else, but of everyone in my life, I thought you would appreciate it the most and take care of it the best."

"Let's not talk about this right now Greg. I want you to tell me about what you've been doing, aside from all of this," she waved her hands around the hospital room, indicating his illness, or work, or both.

"You need to know, just in case. I'm still sick, even if the cancer is gone. My heart could give up any moment. This is important," he explained, his eyes dark and serious. "My apartment is going to Wilson. He'll probably end up selling it, and if he does, make sure he doesn't get ripped off. It's worth more than you'd think. There are some things in the closet and under my bed from when I was a kid that I want you to have. I made a short list off the top of my head when the lawyer was here, but Wilson will know what should go to you." He closed his eyes and turned his head from her when she started crying softly. He hated to see her cry. He'd yelled at her when she came into the room the first time and told her to stop. Now he couldn't. "My life insurance policy is to you. It'll cover all of my debt and funeral costs."

"Greg..please stop," she begged, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. He looked over at her briefly.

"I'm just filling you in, mom. If things go badly, I want you to know that I took care of pretty much everything."

She shook her head and he let out a long breath in agitation. When he opened his mouth to keep talking, his door opened and Wilson stepped in, clutching his file to his side. House looked at his face, and knew immediately what the news was. They held each other's gaze for a few seconds, neither blinking, before House spoke up.

"Mom, can you go to the vending machine or cafeteria and get me something to eat?" House asked, turning his head to his mom. She opened her mouth to argue and he said, "I need to talk to Wilson alone right now. Please."

"It'll only be a minute, Blythe, " Wilson said from the doorway. His face was blank, but he gave a small smile to encourage her. "Just give us five minutes and you can come back."

After a moment of studying Wilson, then House, she sighed and nodded. "Just don't lie to me when I get back. Either of you, " she added, giving each a hard stare. House smiled a little - he felt like he was seven and he'd just gotten busted sneaking looks at his dad's porn magazine collection.

Once the doors closed, Wilson came forward and sat in Blythe's empty chair. House stared at him, waiting, and lifted the oxygen mask to his mouth and adjusted the elastic to keep it in place. His pulse was racing, and the monitor beeped in concern a few times before it settled down.

"It's not gone," Wilson said bluntly, opening the folder to hand the results to House. "The results are much better than they were a week ago, though. The chemotherapy helped a lot. I know you said no, but if you start radiation in a few days, it'll be knocked out completely. If we do nothing, it'll come back and be more aggressive, and you'll be more miserable than you are now when you die."

House said nothing and just read the results for himself. He detached himself from the emotional side of this situation, and tried to be as objective as possible. "The bone marrow isn't affected, so that's good." House's eyes roamed the page more. "White count is through the roof, and red count is in the toilet. At this point a cold could kill me."

"If you start radiation, and stay in the hospital during treatment, you have an 80% chance of full remission. You're so close." Wilson said the words, but his voice was empty. House knew that Wilson meant exactly what he said - he had a very good chance at surviving - but he said it as if he knew it didn't matter. He said it more to save his own ass if House or his mom ever had the brilliant idea to sue him.

"Well, " House started, closing the file and holding it out for Wilson. "Thanks for being the one to tell me. How much time do I have?"

Wilson pursed his lips and closed his eyes momentarily. When his eyes opened again, they were angry, but his voice was neutral. "If you leave the hospital tomorrow or the day after, you could die at any time from any virus, like you said. If you don't get sick with a virus, you have less than a year. We can do some consolidation therapy for a little while that you can take at home. You have such a low amount of cancer cells left that a month or two of treatment will put you into full remission."

"I really don't want to keep taking anything. My body couldn't even take a full chemo phase."

House glanced at the door and saw his mom standing on the other side, waiting to come in. He waved his hand, letting her know she could come in, and he looked over at Wilson. "You'll get my apartment."

Wilson's hands tensed, and he squeezed his fingers together to form a fist. If it were possible, angry flames would be shooting from his eyes, and House smirked to himself a little before turning to watch his mom come into the room.

"You're a selfish bastard," Wilson said through gritted teeth and stood up so fast the chair crashed to the floor. "I thought I didn't care anymore, but I do. God help me, I do. You're wasting space in my ward."

Once Wilson stormed from the room, House looked up at his mom. She stood frozen inside the door, holding a bag of chips to her stomach.

"Come inside, mom. Close the door," House said quietly, and watched her as she stiffly closed the door and picked up the overturned chair and sat down. She dropped the chips on his bed; they were already forgotten. "I still have cancer. Chemo and radiation will probably kill me if I try it again. It put me here and I was healthier a week ago than I am now. I have maybe one other option for treatment, but I don't know if it'll help."

"If there's hope, you need to do it," she whispered, tears spilling out of her eyes. "Don't let this kill you Greg. You've got so many years left. Please."

House shook his head, looking away from her face and staring at his lap. "I'm sorry mom. I love you, but I'm not doing it." He grunted when his mom started sobbing and threw her arms around his shoulders. She sat down awkwardly on the bed and cried into his shoulder, begging him between cries to take the medication. Tears stung his own eyes and he looked to the door, trying to distance himself from the moment.

His team stood on the other side of the glass wall with Wilson, Cuddy, Cameron and Chase. Wilson was shaking his head and talking with Cuddy, never taking his eyes off of House's face. Cameron was crying into Chase's shoulder; when Chase saw him looking, he turned his back and walked away, taking Cameron with him. Foreman took Chase's cue and left, obviously disgusted, and Taub followed.

Thirteen stared at him for a long moment before a tear dropped down her cheek and she turned her back, following everyone who had left before her. After a minute, nobody was left watching them, and guilt gnawed at House's stomach.

* * *

Don't forget the link down below to review!


	20. Chapter 20

3 my beta ShaiWatson. I don't own anything.

* * *

The rest of the day flew by in an emotional storm for House. Wilson hadn't come back, which didn't surprise him in the least, but it hurt and bothered him nonetheless. Arguments with his mom left him mentally exhausted until he had finally snapped and told her to go home. Of course she didn't, but it made her stop talking long enough for him to slip into a light sleep.

He was aware of people coming and going from the room, hands on his forehead and the IV tubes in his arm tensing as medication was administered. Every few hours, something would be given to him, and he silently hoped it was pain medication; his leg and shoulder hurt to the point of nausea. He knew he would start detoxing soon, and the last thing he wanted was to go through that in the condition he was in now.

When food came at dinner time, his mom gently woke him, and he grudgingly ate. The TV was on across the room, and he kept his eyes on the screen, but hardly heard a thing that was said. His mind was foggy and he couldn't figure out what the characters meant by the words they said.

"I'm going to go to a hotel," his mom announced after a nurse had come in to give him his next dose of steroids. House was disappointed in himself when he felt let down that none of his doctors - or friend - had come to do it themselves. "I've left my number with your doctors, to call me if anything happens."

"You can go to my place, " he said, internally struggling with his emotions. The last thing he wanted was to be left alone, but it was his fault he was.

Blythe shook her head sadly. "No, I can't." She kissed his forehead and cupped his cheek with her hand gently. "I love you. I'll be back in the morning. Think on your choices Greg. The last thing I need to do before I die is bury my son next to his father."

_He wasn't my father_, he thought bitterly, and barely stopped himself from speaking the words. Instead, he managed a weak, "I love you, too," and gave the barest of smiles before she left.

Once she was gone, he called his nurse. When she stuck her head in, he gave her a dirty look and said, "I want one of my doctors in here. Now."

"I can try to find one. They were in a meeting an hour ago," she smiled, but it fell quickly when he narrowed his eyes at her. "I'll page Dr. Foreman."

The door closed behind her, and House chewed his lip in thought. _A meeting with _all _of them? _It could have been a meeting about anything; chances are, a new patient was brought into the hospital and they were trying to bounce ideas around. _Not with Cuddy or Wilson. But they aren't my doctors, are they?_ Wilson was, and he was in the Oncology Ward. _Why is she paging Foreman and not Wilson?_

Thoughts raced as he tried to figure out what was going on. After a few minutes, the frantic thoughts changed from his team to the pain in his body. With each passing minute, he felt a new ache from being in bed for hours, but the last thing he wanted to do was to get up and walk the pain off. His leg was on fire, and his shoulder felt like a cold knife was being twisted under his shoulder blade. Every few seconds he'd have to close his eyes and take a deep breath to stop a dizzying wave of nausea from taking over him.

After what felt like an hour - it easily could have been; the pain in his body made every minute feel like a day - Foreman came into the room. He stopped beside the bed and stared down at House with a blank expression. "What did you need, House?"

"Vicodin," House managed to say, swallowing back bile. He looked up at Foreman, struggling to keep a hold on his pain and emotions.

"I can't. Cuddy said not to give you anything. Sorry," he answered, not sounding the least bit apologetic. House clenched his jaw and was embarrassed when a small sound came from his throat. He rubbed his thigh with every bit of strength he could gather.

"Why did she say that? I need something more than ibuprofen. It's not working, and my body can't handle detoxing right now." House breathed in deeply through his nose, then raised his eyes to Foreman's pleadingly. "Any other time, I could handle this. Not now."

Foreman studied House's face for a moment, then glanced at the computer screen to check his vitals. He frowned and scratched the back of his neck in thought. Finally, he said, "I don't know why you're afraid to detox now. I didn't think it would matter to you if you died from heart failure during detox now, or cancer later. Are you ready to agree to treatment, then?"

House stared at Foreman, surprised. _Sneaky bastard_ he thought wryly.

"Is that what your meeting is about?" House snapped, pulling his hand from his thigh and clenching his fists tightly. "Trying to come up with ways to trick me into treatment? It won't work. I'll deal with the pain, then."

Foreman shrugged. "Fine. I'm going home, maybe I'll see you tomorrow. Have a good night."

Once the door shut behind Foreman, House threw his hand out and pushed his table with leftover dinner onto the floor. He groaned as his body objected, and he sank into the pillows in resignation.

"They could at least overdose me on morphine," he said bitterly, and closed his eyes. "What do they think they're doing?" An idea formed in his head and he opened his eyes again, reaching to the bedside table for his cell phone. He flipped it open and searched the phone book for his attorney.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Wilson stood in front of Cuddy's desk, his voice raising with each word he said. Cameron stood behind Wilson, and Chase stood beside Cuddy; teams apparently had been chosen.

"You can't do this!" Wilson said angrily, slamming his fist on the top of her desk. Foreman, who had just come back from seeing House, took a step back from the desk, obviously torn between the two sides. "It's _wrong _to make him suffer."

"His body can't handle it," Chase argued, then backed down when Cuddy shot a look at him.

"Chase is right. How much fentanyl did you give him and that threw him into a seizure? We can't risk morphine or Vicodin, not until we know his body can handle it."

Wilson threw his hands in the air in disgust and started pacing when Cameron started talking. "Wasn't he taking morphine and Vicodin all this time with no problems? We're doctors and if some of us were there when it was administered, we could do something about it immediately if his body can't take it."

"He should detox anyway," Foreman put in, and when everyone turned to him he bristled slightly. "He's got so much stuff in his system right now, detoxing isn't a bad idea. Maybe it'll put things into perspective for him."

"This is wrong," Wilson growled, staring at Foreman, Cuddy and Chase levelly. "He's an asshole for the choices he's making, but we have no right to make him hurt." He closed his eyes and took a steadying breath, and jumped a little when someone knocked on Cuddy's door. He turned his head and when Chase groaned, he knew who it was who was entering. "See? He's not stupid," he snapped, glaring at Cuddy angrily.

"Hi, I'm Mr. Davison, Mr. House's attorney," he introduced himself, extending his hand to everyone in the room. Cuddy pursed her lips and looked torn between calling the hospital attorney and sitting down to hear what Davison had to say.

"How can we help you?" She finally asked, sitting down slowly, trying to appear nonchalant. Wilson could tell his argument had just been won.

"I understand that Mr. House is in an incredible amount of pain, and has been denied pain medication that he is often prescribed. Perhaps there's something more that he is not telling me, so I will stop short of suing you for medical neglect and malpractice if you give me a legitimate reason why he's not being treated properly." The attorney stood stiffly in front of the desk in his crisply pressed suit. Wilson bit his lip to stop a smile from working its way onto his face. He _hated _House right now, but not enough to make him suffer.

"We think his body can't handle the medication," Cuddy answered firmly, trying to stay calm. "We gave him a small dose of medication this morning that threw him into a seizure. We would like to wait until he is better, perhaps tomorrow, before finding out if the medication will hurt him."

The attorney stared at her, openly surprised. "I'm sorry if this is ridiculous, Dr. Cuddy, so forgive me in advance. But aren't we in a hospital? Where he could get medical treatment immediately if he did, for some reason, have a reaction to a medication he's been on for years?"

Wilson did smirk at that, not trying to hide it any longer, and took a step away from the desk. The last thing he wanted to do was be in the middle of a pissing contest between Cuddy and an attorney.

"Fine." The words left Cuddy's mouth in an angry tone. "Cameron, take Mr. Davison to House's room so he could witness the administration of the Vicodin."

Without another word, Wilson followed Cameron and the attorney out into the empty clinic. It was late, and he was surprised that the attorney was here after hours. On the way to the elevator, Wilson struggled with his thoughts; should he go up to House's room and see him, or go home? The last thing he wanted to do was sit beside House after the words he'd snapped in grief earlier, but he couldn't make himself go home, either.

Tomorrow he had to work again; he was missing too much time, and he had other patients. He had other patients that _cared _about what was happening to them, and wanted to do everything they could to get better. Of course, most of his other patients had families and lives worth staying for, at least in their own minds.

The ride to the Oncology Ward was silent. The attorney had his cell phone out, sighing to himself as he read messages. Cameron had her arms crossed and stood stiffly, keeping her eyes forward on the doors. Wilson stood behind them, deep in his own thoughts, desperately trying to make a decision on what to do.

Eventually he decided on staying in the hallway outside of House's room. He nodded to Cameron once as she passed him to go inside, and stuck his hands in his pockets as he watched House talk with his attorney. Cameron briefly talked to them before leaving the room to get a syringe of Vicodin. House didn't even glance in the direction of the door, which Wilson was thankful for - he didn't want House to know he was there.

As he watched his friend, he saw his hands gripping the blanket on either side of his body. Wilson could see that House was in pain; his heart rate was higher than it had been before, and his hand kept moving to his thigh. The attorney didn't seem to notice what Wilson did.

Cameron bustled back into the room, and House turned his head to watch her come in. Briefly, his eyes locked with Wilson's, then moved on to look up at Cameron. His face was incredibly pale, and as he rubbed his bare head, Wilson's stomach clenched. _He should have something on his head_ he thought to himself, and before he realized what he was doing, he was walking away from the room.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

"Why won't you get treatment?" Cameron asked quietly, screwing the syringe onto the IV and pushing the plunger slowly. House watched intently, as if the medication would work faster if he stared.

"I'm not talking about this with you," he said, looking up at her momentarily before turning his head to his attorney. "Thanks for your help."

"Call me if you have anymore trouble." The attorney's eyes flickered to Cameron before he gave House a smile. "I'll get in touch with you tomorrow."

House nodded and watched the man leave the room. He risked a glance into the hallway, but Wilson was no longer there. It bothered him that he was disappointed once again; Wilson wasn't a friend if he couldn't accept his personal decisions.

"Talk to someone about it, then," Cameron continued, unscrewing the syringe from the tubing. She sat down in the chair beside his bed, and said, "I'm waiting just in case you go into cardiac arrest or stop breathing. I have to be here."

House sighed and closed his eyes. The Vicodin would kick in any moment, and he wanted to be at peace when it did.

"Don't ignore me," she said, jabbing her finger into his ribs. He groaned and opened his eyes and looked over at her. "Does your mom know that you're refusing treatment?"

"Yes," he answered through gritted teeth. His ribs ached where she'd gotten him.

"And she's okay with that?"

House narrowed his eyes and turned his head from her. The Vicodin was starting to kick in; his body was starting to relax.

"Why are _you _okay with it?" She asked sharply, sticking her finger in his ribs again.

"Because, " he said, sticking his finger into her chest. "_I _have nothing to live for. I'm not leaving anything or anyone behind that I will miss. Nobody here will miss me. If _you _were in this bed right now instead of me, I would be yelling at you and telling you to get treatment because _you_ have things to live for. Don't get holier than thou on me, Cameron. It doesn't work in this situation."

Cameron watched him blankly throughout his entire explanation before smiling softly. "I'd miss you."

"Of course _you _would. You're such a bleeding heart. I'm talking about normal people. You'd be sad for a few days and then you'll get married and have kids and I'll be a distant memory." House closed his eyes again and felt almost one hundred percent better with the Vicodin coursing through his body. His leg and shoulder pain was a dull ache at the back of his mind. He could easily fall asleep now.

"That's not true," she protested quietly, and her hand wrapped around his slowly. He opened one eye to give her a challenging look, and when she didn't let go he turned his head again and relaxed his hand in her grip.

"Well, maybe not a distant memory. I left some things in my will for you."

The grip on House's hand tensed, and he silently cheered himself on. _Maybe now she'll take my decision seriously._

"I hope it was something _nice_, and not your dirty laundry or the porn collection you made with your hookers," Wilson said, and House's eyes flew open, pulling his hand from Cameron's grip quickly. Wilson stood in the doorway, looking uneasy, holding House's black beanie in his hands. "I went to your office and grabbed this for you."

"Thanks." House reached out and took the beanie from Wilson and pulled it onto his head. The warmth of the cap pulled a contented sigh from his chest. He hadn't realized how cold his head had been.

Cameron smiled from House to Wilson, then stood up. "I'm going to go talk to your team. They got a patient earlier that they can't figure out, and I'm your replacement until you're better." She eyed Wilson longer than House, and House frowned at her back as she left.

"So.." Wilson trailed off, and slowly came around the bed to sit in the chair Cameron had just been in. "I have something to say to you, but please hear me out and don't argue with me until I'm done."

* * *

FFN was down for days. It gave me enough time to write 5 chapters though. Updates come quicker with more reviews (what can I say? I'm a review hoar)


	21. Chapter 21

Disclaimer: I don't own anyone or anything but the plot.

Thanks to my super awesome beta!

* * *

"I can't deal with another heart to heart. How many have we had in the last week? Should I cry on your shoulder again while you tell me you love me, and we kiss and make up? Then will you win the war because I'll agree to doing things your way, and not my own?" House asked sharply, his blue eyes piercing into Wilson's own. Wilson swallowed back his heart that had jumped into his throat. _Could this be the last time I really get to look at him?_

"Yes," Wilson answered, hoping his simple reply would make House pause and take him seriously.

"What more do you have to say to me that you haven't said in the last week? What else is there to drag up and beat again?"

Wilson kept his eyes locked with House's, and silently prayed he would listen. _Now isn't the time to be stubborn_. The thought was true in almost every situation that involved House, especially lately, but it didn't change the fact that in this moment, House needed to not wall himself up.

"Do you trust me?" Wilson asked, hoping that he had the right approach. He'd decided on the walk back from House's office that another talk was needed _now, _and with only minutes to decide what to say he was not sure he knew where he was going or what he was going to say.

House blinked, slightly thrown off by the question, and Wilson relaxed slightly. Confusion was good; it was better than him being angry. _He never looks confused around me, though._ Wilson studied him, and noticed the slightly dazed look in his eyes.

"I...guess I trust you," House said slowly, and Wilson could see the gears turning in his head, trying to figure out what the conversation was about, or where it was going. "What does that have to do with anything?"

"Am I your friend?"

House narrowed his eyes at that, and snorted softly. Wilson eyed him suspiciously when he saw him wince in pain. The Vicodin should be working now. House interrupted his scrutinizing with, "are you going to guilt me?"

"I'm not trying to. I'm just trying to sort out what's going on, that's all," Wilson answered, lacing his fingers together in his lap. His heart was thudding in his chest, but he was trying hard to stay in control. "Just answer the question, or I'll believe I royally wasted my time this last week with you."

House sighed loudly and nodded. "_Yes_, you are my friend. You are the only friend I have. You are the wind beneath my wings, the sun in my day, the -"

"I _guarantee _consolidation therapy will put you into remission," Wilson said quickly, cutting House's words off. When House opened his mouth to protest, he lifted his hand to silence him. "Listen to me. I'm telling you, there's probably a five percent chance that you _won't _go into remission. With odds like that, you'd be stupid not to do it. And you are far from stupid, House. Yes, you are my best friend, and yes, I love you, and that's why I'm here. You are a selfish bastard, and so full of disdain that any stranger walking into this room would be momentarily blinded by your essence, but _that's you_. How many people have you saved in the last year?"

House stared, obviously stunned by the words, then muttered, "I don't know, maybe twenty?"

"How about in the last ten years?" Wilson raised his eyebrows, forcing himself to stay still and not lean forward in anticipation. The wheels were spinning in House's head, now, and he knew he could talk him into anything soon.

"I don't know, why?" When Wilson gave him a hard look, House sighed and raised his eyes up in thought. "I couldn't put a number on it."

"Fine. I'll help you. Say you save two patients a week, on average. That's, what, around a hundred patients a year? Have you _really _successfully treated nearly one thousand people?" Wilson unlaced his fingers and put his palms on his knees, stopping himself from bouncing his legs.

"I highly doubt it's been that many. And how many patients have died because I couldn't figure it out in enough time? And what the hell does that have to do with my impending death?" House asked roughly, struggling to sit upright now. He reached over to his table for a cup of water, trying unsuccessfully to hide a grimace. His hand moved, not to his thigh, but to his back to massage his right side. Sweat was beading on his forehead now, and Wilson raised his hand to check his temperature with his wrist, but stopped when House shot him a look.

Instead, Wilson put his hand on House's knee and smiled, keeping his eyes on his face. House eyed him suspiciously from around the cup while he drank. "It really has nothing to do with your cancer. I was just trying to pump up your ego a bit. House, you're an _amazing _doctor, and the only reason you don't have someone to go home to every night is because somewhere in the back of your mind, you talk yourself down."

"I really don't know what you're getting at. This isn't changing my mind, like, at all," House said sarcastically, and put the cup down, shaking his head. His hand stopped moving on his back, and he turned his eyes to Wilson. "I need to go to the bathroom. Can this wait a minute?"

Wilson watched silently as House sat himself up completely and slowly moved his feet to the floor. He started to move to help him when he put all of his weight on his feet and his knees sagged slightly, but he recovered quickly and gripped the IV pole.

"I need oxygen when I get back." House glanced over his shoulder halfway to the bathroom, visibly exhausted from the short walk. Wilson tried to think of why he didn't have a catheter in; he knew he had one before he'd had his CT earlier.

Once the door was partially closed, Wilson stood up and started pulling open drawers for a clean oxygen mask - House had dropped his other one on the floor - and was hooking the tubes up when House spoke up from the bathroom.

"Wilson." The one word was stressed, and Wilson dropped the mask to the floor and walked toward the bathroom. He pushed the door open slowly, and found House clutching his IV pole, trying to stay standing. Just as Wilson started to ask what was going on, House said, "there's blood."

Wilson cursed, looking where House had nodded; the urine in the toilet was reddish brown.

"Okay," Wilson breathed, and covered the few steps between himself and House quickly. "I'm going to put you back in bed and we're going to run some tests." He lifted House's right arm and put it around his shoulders and pushed the pole out of the room, supporting as much of House's weight as he could. Sweat seeped through his shirt where House's skin was touching him, and his mind started to race.

_What in the hell is going on with him?_

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

"Let's start from the beginning. The very first day he came in here, before the cancer, when we treated him for the flu," Wilson said, holding a marker in his hand and pacing in front of the white board in House's office. Thirteen stifled a yawn behind her hand - it was almost 10 PM now - while Taub and Kutner flipped through medical books. Cuddy was in House's room with him, and Cameron _should _be running blood tests with Foreman.

_He'd better not say that nobody cares after this. He has seven doctors working right now to help him. Eight if we have to use Chase tonight._

"He probably didn't have the flu," Thirteen said, and Wilson almost snapped at her that _of course _he probably didn't have the flu. _Thanks for playing doctor for the day_.

"He had a high fever." Wilson turned his back on the doctors and started writing on the board. "He was severely dehydrated, and couldn't keep anything down." He wrote 'dehydration' and 'vomiting' below 'fever'.

"He was exhausted, and anemic," Kutner said, going through the pages of House's ER chart.

"Make a second list for the symptoms of the AML." Thirteen's voice was sharp, nearly demanding, and Wilson was glad for it. The last thing he wanted to deal with was someone like Cuddy - or, more importantly, someone like himself, who was nearly falling apart emotionally.

Wilson divided the board with his marker and poised the tip of the marker above it, waiting. "Come on, guys."

Papers rustled and Taub said, "bruising when he came in the first time. Excessive bleeding from scrapes when he fell off his bike."

"Weakness. That should go on both sides," Kutner added, looking up briefly to make sure Wilson heard him.

"The dehydration and lack of food could have caused the weakness," Thirteen argued, but Wilson didn't erase it. It was better to have it on there in case they missed something again.

"What about the side effects of the chemo? He had more than typical chemo patients get. Maybe they weren't all caused by those meds, but by whatever else is making him sick," Kutner suggested, turning a page back and forth in the file to read the front and back over.

Wilson made a third column and wrote 'seizures' at the top.

"He passed out a few times." Taub folded a piece of paper over the back of the folder and ran his finger down it while he read. "Confusion, lethargy, Pulmonary Toxicity, high bilirubin."

"His heart attacks," Thirteen added. "We had to have missed something in his heart."

Wilson shook his head and turned to face them. "We all saw the CTs, and we did a couple of ultrasounds. It's not his heart."

"Kidney damage is a complication of chemo. Maybe he really did have the flu, and his drug use really has just weakened his organs to the point that the chemo made his liver and kidneys start shutting down." Kutner didn't look up as he said it, but Wilson knew that the blame was starting to get thrown at him again.

"So what can we erase from the first list and chalk up to cancer?"

"Fever stays. Fever indicates infection. He's had a fever for over a week now, and it's not breaking now. Take off anemia. His iron levels have gotten better since treatment." Taub reached for his cup of coffee and drank from it slowly for a moment before putting it back down. "How sure are you that his kidney's are shutting down? Daunomycin can cause red urine."

"Heart rhythm is affected by Daunomycin, too," Kutner added, meeting Wilson's eyes steadily. "Maybe we should give it another few days, and just wait for the test results."

Wilson shook his head. "Daunomycin would've made his urine red by now if he were to get that side effect. He hasn't, and he's having pain in his right kidney. The medication _could_ have caused the cardiomyapathy, and it probably did since his heart has been better since his treatment ended." Wilson erased 'cardiomyapathy' and 'heart attack' from the board.

"If it's side effects of medication we're talking about, the bilirubin could've been caused by it, too, " Thirteen said, closing her folder. "Wilson, I know you're worried, but it's all pointing to side effects or complications of the treatment or cancer."

"She's right, Wilson. Cytarabine could account for the confusion and heart, also. Really, from what I can see on the board, the only thing that's of concern is the seizures, and probably the fever." Taub closed his folder too. Wilson wanted to scream, but he was too tired. _I just want all of this to end_. The thought was similar to things House had said over the last week, and he sympathized with him now. Especially if he had to talk to these doctors all day.

"What causes seizures, kidney failure and fever?" Wilson asked, erasing the board and rewriting the three symptoms on top.

Kutner was the only one to speak up. Wilson didn't miss the quiet sighs from the other two doctors. "Acute kidney failure causes convulsions, fever, bloody urine, nausea, vomiting, and bruising."

"Right. Which he could've gotten from his drug abuse," Thirteen said, her voice full of disdain. Wilson gripped the marker hard enough to cramp his hand, and he bit his lip from lashing out at her. _If he did this to himself...then fine. But who is _she _to criticize drug abuse? To put him down?_

"Could have been from his accident the other day. Maybe he didn't damage his kidney bad enough to see immediately after on the MRI or CT, but it's been a few days and he's had other problems since then that could have made it worse." Kutner added, and Wilson was relieved that Kutner was at least making an effort. He wrote 'bike accident' under 'drug use'.

"Dehydration could've caused kidney failure, too. Because he _probably _had the flu," Taub pointed out, resting his elbows on the top of the table. He dropped his chin into his hands and watched the board.

"Look," Wilson finally snapped, turning to the three doctors angrily. "I don't _care _if you agree with me or not. But he's getting new symptoms from _something_, when he should be getting better. I need ideas; I can't do this alone. If the test results come back negative for everything, and his piss is clear in the morning, then I'm sorry for wasting your night. If the test results come back positive for even one thing, and he dies tomorrow from something as unlikely as _shock_, you won't work for _any _hospital in this country again. I can guarantee that."

The three doctors exchanged brief looks and cracked open books again and started throwing out ideas within seconds. Wilson bit his tongue when Thirteen suggested some of the most unlikely diseases in her book.

"_Really_, Hadley?" Wilson said at one point, narrowing his eyes at her. "Do you _really _think he has Eclampsia? Is he suddenly sporting a new uterus that nobody was aware of? Get out of here if you aren't going to take this seriously. Go, before I fire you."

Thirteen stood up without another word and left the office, and Wilson turned back to the board without a second thought about her. The three doctors sat in the room for an hour after Thirteen left, tossing ideas off of each other before Wilson had a list of possibilities on the board. He capped the marker, his eyes watering from exhaustion, and Taub started speaking.

"What if Thirteen is right? I mean, it's highly unlikely that he has cancer _and _a disease that's causing kidney failure. It's got to be the medication just making his urine red, or his drug abuse causing kidney failure."

Wilson's pager went off, startling his heart into his throat. He'd forgotten he even owned one; nobody had paged him all day. He looked down at the screen, then dropped the marker on the board and glanced at Taub.

"It's a second disease," he said, then rushed from the room with Kutner and Taub on his heels.

When Wilson skidded to a halt inside House's room, his heart fell from his throat to his stomach. Cameron was yelling at a nurse, who was suctioning House's mouth while he vomited. Cameron, Cuddy and a second nurse were holding his thrashing body against the bed.

"You're right," Kutner said softly beside Wilson. "Seizures and vomiting would've stopped by now if it were the chemo drugs."

"Shit," Taub muttered, let out a long sigh, and left the room without another word. Wilson silently agreed.


	22. Chapter 22

I don't own anything but the plot.

3 to my great beta ShaiWatson.

* * *

Wilson spent the night in House's room again, dozing for a few minutes at a time. So far, Cameron and Foreman had come back with test results three times - every test they were running on his kidneys were negative. He made sure they knew the board in House's office had other ideas, but he didn't know if they were checking on it or not. If they didn't, he'd run his own tests later.

Blythe House came in at midnight and a second recliner was placed beside Wilson's. They were silent for a while, neither knowing what to say.

"He looks terrible," she said quietly, breaking their silence. Wilson nodded his head in agreement. Seeing his friend _still _suffering was starting to wear him down, and he found himself wondering if it was right to keep going. "Did Greg tell you anything he discussed with the attorney?"

"No. I'm not sure if I want to know," he answered, scratching his neck. He dropped his eyes from the sight of House, still except for the rise and fall of his chest; he hadn't woken up after the seizure almost an hour before. Wilson hoped he was getting needed rest, and not slipping into a coma. He'd been reassured by Cameron and Cuddy that he was just sleeping, and he'd checked himself to make sure, but his friend's still body was terrifying him.

"I'm sure when the attorney comes by in the morning, he'll fill you in. Greg wants you to make medical decisions involving him if he can't do it himself." Blythe's voice broke at the end, and Wilson closed his eyes as she started to cry softly. _He wants _me _to do it?_

"Do you know what the details of that are?" Wilson asked gently, looking up at her, then at House. He hadn't moved, though he didn't know why he had expected him to in ten seconds. _Please wake up_.

Blythe shook her head. "All he said was he trusted you out of everyone to do what was right by him, and to obey his wishes. His attorney knows everything. But you should know now, in case anything happens." She wiped her eyes and turned her face to Wilson's and stared at him with a piercing look - one that House had. It crushed him to keep eye contact with her. "If you can..can you treat him for the cancer? Cure it?"

"I don't know. It's not what he wants," he said, his voice soft, yet firm. "I can't do that when I know he doesn't want it."

"Please James. He can't die like this, or let himself die of the cancer. I don't know why he's being so damn stubborn about it, but I can't sit by and let it happen," she pleaded, her eyes shining with tears.

Wilson turned his body toward her and put his hands over hers. "Do you know what it was like for him when he woke up after his coma, when he had the infarction, and he found out that Stacy had done what he had said not to? That destroyed his trust in anyone, and the fact that he trusts me is _huge_. Blythe, I don't think I can do that, even if he left that option up to me legally."

"It would save his life. How could you let him die when you have an opportunity to save him?" She pulled her hands from his grasp and stared at him, furious. "What kind of person are you?"

"If I'm legally and morally bound to sit by and let him die, I can't do anything but hold his hand while he goes."

Blythe stood up and moved to the side of House's bed and clutched his hand. She didn't turn to Wilson when she said, "Greg would never let you die, even if you wanted it."

_That's why he's saved more people than me. That's why he's the better doctor_.

Wilson settled back into the chair and crossed his ankles. They were silent for the rest of the night, Wilson deep in his thoughts, trying to decide what to do. Blythe fell asleep at one point with her head on the mattress by House's thigh, holding his hand beside her face.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

House woke up gasping, trying to claw his way out of the nightmare he'd been having. His eyes flew open and he bolted upright, struggling for a deep breath. He ripped the oxygen mask off his face, and looked around the room, panicking. Pain in his head made him freeze and he groaned, dropping his face into his hands.

"What is it? What's wrong?"

It was a struggle to look up at his mom, who was staring at him with wide eyes. The heart monitor beside the bed was screeching, and his head started to hurt more with every passing second. He must have ripped the cords from his chest.

"Lie back down." A new voice.

House swayed and turned his head to the other side of his bed and stared at Cameron blankly. His stomach started rolling, and the pain in his head was spreading to behind his eyes. He blinked sweat out of his eyes and grasped the bed rail weakly.

"What are you doing? I said lie down," Cameron said, putting her hand on his chest.

"I can't."

House tried to push her hand off of his chest, and when it didn't move he raised his eyes to her face. She was talking over her shoulder to a nurse, and putting pressure on his chest to force him down.

"Move."

The one word came out in a moan, and before anyone had time to react, he collapsed off of the bed. He was aware enough to fall onto his arms before his face met with the floor, but beyond that he was too weak to move. Bile burned his throat and he started retching on the floor, and he forced his eyes open when arms around his chest pulled him to his knees.

"Tell me what's wrong," Cameron said, lifting his eyelids to keep eye contact. "What hurts?" House tried to turn his head to see who was holding him up, but moving his head made his vision blur and he vomited again. "House, stay with me. Stay awake. Tell me what hurts."

"_Everything_," he groaned, his eyes snapping shut. He couldn't keep them open any longer.

"Come on. Keep your eyes open." Cameron forced his eyes open and he watched her turn her head behind her. "Get Taub and Wilson in here."

House couldn't hold himself up even with help anymore and he started to go down to the floor again. He heard people talking, but he couldn't make it out; the pain in his head was deafening. He managed to look up for a second as his body was dragged from the vomit on the floor, and he started shaking as he was lowered onto his back on the cold floor.

"What's wrong?"

Wilson's voice made him open his eyes and he strained to see his friend. His body wouldn't stop shivering, and sweat was dripping into his eyes.

"There's some blood here."

Cameron's words made House struggle to sit up to see what she was talking about. Wilson came into view and put his hands firmly on his chest to keep him down.

"He's been throwing up constantly for a week. There's not enough blood to assume it's anything serious."

The words confused him, and he tried to break away from the hold Wilson had on his chest, but he couldn't.

"Please," he whispered, closing his eyes against the blinding lights from the ceiling. Wilson moved his ear close to his mouth to hear him, and he weakly said, "please help me."

"Where's Foreman? We need to know what's happening _now_. If we don't start treating him, he's going to die."

House's body wouldn't stop shaking, and a thought floated through his mind, something important, but he couldn't grasp it long enough to figure out what it was.

"House," Wilson said, bringing his attention back above him. He had his hands on his throat and cheek, forcing his head and attention on Wilson. "Tell me where it hurts."

"Head." The word sounded clear to him, but he could tell by the look on Wilson's face that he hadn't understood him. When Wilson put his hand on House's forehead, House nodded. _His hand feels so good_. Wilson spoke over his shoulder to a nurse; House thought he said migraine.

"Does it hurt here?" Wilson asked, putting his hands on House's chest gently. House struggled to feel that part of his body, and relief flooded him when he realized his chest wasn't hurting. He shook his head. "Dim the lights, please," Wilson said to someone behind House's head, and moments later the room was dark, except for a patch of light above his bed. "How about here?" Wilson asked, placing a hand gently on House's injured shoulder. He groaned in response. "Here?" A hand moved under House's back and pressed gently around his kidney. House nodded, raising his own hands to his face to wipe the sweat away.

"Is it his kidney again?" _Mom. Where's my mom?_ House moved his hands and tried to move his head, but hands on his face stopped him again. His eyes rolled, trying to see past the flashes of light in his vision to see who was holding him still.

"Where's Foreman?" Wilson demanded, and when someone answered that they paged him, he sighed. "House," Wilson said, turning his eyes back to House's and leaning over him so their faces were inches apart. He was dimly aware of weight on his pelvis, pinning his lower body down. In the back of his mind, a thought formed about the romantic aspects of their positioning, but before he could try to voice it aloud, the thought drifted away. "Look at me, House. I need you to hear me, and nod when you understand what I tell you." House nodded, staring up into Wilson's eyes. His body jerked and shivered, and every joint felt like it was on fire. "Your fever is too high. We need to get you into an ice bath."

"So cold now," House whispered, the words slurring together. Wilson nodded, putting his free hand on House's cheek gently, his face inches from House's so they could hear each other.

"I know you're cold now. It's going to be hell, but you have a bad infection and we need to lower your temperature until we can figure out what it is that's causing this. Do you understand?" House groaned, and tried to push himself up to a sitting position, but Wilson pressed his forearm across House's chest to hold him down. _Why is he on top of me?_ Clear thoughts were starting to form, and House started to realize there were people around them, moving around with jobs to do. "I need your consent, House."

"You.." House struggled for words, his eyelids growing heavy. Wilson shook him and his eyes snapped open.

"You don't need his consent when he's obviously a lunatic." House looked up and saw Cuddy standing beside him, and he opened his mouth to argue. "I don't know why we're even bothering. I mean really, he's pathetic. Nobody wants to keep treating him, Wilson."

"What?" House asked, hurt and confused at the remark. Anger quickly squashed the other two emotions and he struggled to sit up again. "I'm not going to die because you won't treat me."

Cuddy threw her head back and laughed, and somewhere behind her was echoing laughter. He heard screaming, but it was so distant he thought it could be down the hall. "Please, House. You don't give a shit if you live or die. You don't even want us to treat you, remember?"

"Yes I do!" He managed to say, gasping for a breath. His chest was aching and his throat was raw; he couldn't figure out why. "Help me! Wilson, don't listen to her!"

The room suddenly lit up, white hot light burning into House's eyes. He shut his eyes and turned his head as he started dry heaving. His head felt like it was going to split open. Cuddy was still laughing above him, and when his stomach calmed he opened his eyes to stare at her. As he opened his mouth to tell her _something_, her face changed. The skin started rolling, as if the bones were popping out of place and resetting elsewhere. It was sickening to watch, and House fought to sit up and get away from her.

"GET ME AWAY FROM HER!" He yelled, fighting against the heaviness on top of his body. Cuddy's eyes started to bleed from the corners, and when she smiled at him, chuckling softly, chunky black liquid fell out of her mouth and onto the floor with sickening plops.

"We'll take care of you, if you really want," she said, and House turned his eyes, frantically trying to find Wilson. Above him, Wilson was still holding him down, but his face had changed, too. He had no eyes now, but House knew he could see him anyway. Pus drained from his empty sockets, and when he opened his mouth to talk, the black liquid fell out of his mouth and onto House's face.

House opened his mouth and let out a horrified scream, forcing every amount of strength he had into trying to throw Wilson off of him. He was dimly aware of the pain from his shoulder and leg; the adrenaline in his body was helping him try to escape. With one last shove, he got Wilson off of him and he struggled upright, pushing himself backward with his feet and arms. His hand landed in something behind him, and he knew without looking that it was whatever had come from Cuddy's mouth. His stomach rolled, and he yelled something in panic, trying to move away faster from the two doctors.

Wilson turned to Cuddy and House heard him say quietly, "he's hallucinating. We need to knock him out."

Hands gripped his upper arms from behind, and House screamed. The room was darkening now, the blinding light no longer cutting into his eyes and head like knives. He could still see Cuddy and Wilson, and saw their skin starting to rot.

_This isn't a hallucination. Oh, God, this is real_.

With wide eyes, House watched as a syringe was put into his IV, Cuddy laughing while she injected him. His eyes traveled from Cuddy to his arm, and he started fighting against the hands on his arms to pull the IV out of his hand. _Can't let it get inside me. They'll kill me_.

The room was almost completely dark now, and he felt his body start to give up. _NO!_ He reached for the IV and tried to pull it out, but he got as far as gripping the tube before his eyes rolled back and he dropped limply into the arms of the person behind him.


	23. Chapter 23

I don't own anything but the plot. Thanks to my awesome beta 3

* * *

"No ice bath," Cameron said, looking up at Wilson, her eyes wide with worry. "It will kill him to put his body into that much shock. Ice packs are better." They both knelt on either side of House; Blythe House was taken out to the hallway with Cuddy to give them space. Empty syringes were on the floor beside Cameron; Cuddy had given him a sedative when it was evident that they couldn't control him without it. Wilson regretted having to do it, as the drugs would probably cause more issues soon, but they couldn't help him at all if he had continued hallucinating.

"Then get me ice packs," Wilson snapped and turned to a nurse who was standing beside the door trying to look anywhere but at the doctors. _It's terrifying everyone to see House like this._ "I need you to come here and clean up the mess from his catheter, and reinsert a new one." Wilson grimaced and tried not to think about the reddish urine that was soaking into his pants at the knees where he knelt. "You," he pointed at a second nurse. "Get a janitor. This room needs to be sterilized." Bloody urine and vomit on the floor was impressive, even for House. "And one of you get another nurse to clean the bed, and a fourth nurse to find a clean room and bring the bed in here."

Wilson put his fingers on House's pulse and started counting, and his hope started to diminish when he realized his heart was beating too fast. _The fever is going to kill him before anything else can._ He jumped up and grabbed the sheet off of the bed and picked up the water pitcher and dumped the last of the water onto the fabric. He knelt beside House again and put the soaked sheet behind House's neck and held it there; he had to do _something_.

It was a hugeeffort to get House cleaned up enough to get into a new bed while he was unconscious, but they managed. After the blinds were drawn, Wilson undressed House from the soiled gown and tossed it across the floor without a second thought, and Cuddy brought in a bucket of tepid water and knelt on the floor beside House's still body. They each silently took a towel and got it wet, not bothering to wring out the water, and started cleaning him off. He'd thrashed around so much that he'd managed to get in both his urine and vomit (Wilson asked himself more than once why the nurse and Cameron had dragged him only a foot away). Wilson took it upon himself to clean House's most prized parts, knowing that once he found out about this he'd be upset if Cuddy had been the one to do it. Though, maybe Wilson doing it would be worse.

The cool water seemed to lower House's temperature slightly, and they quickly lifted him onto the clean bed that was pushed into the room. A nurse came in with a pair of hospital underwear and put it on expertly, then backed off. Cameron came in and immediately put an ice pack on House's chest. Wilson took another one from her and put it on top of House's groin. A third ice pack was put behind House's neck. Without another word, they each grabbed a side of the bed and started pushing it out the door to move him to his new room while the nurses - and janitor - cleaned up the one they'd just trashed.

Two nurses were waiting in the new room when they pushed the bed inside. One nurse was holding an oxygen mask, and he strapped it around House's head the moment the bed stopped moving. The other nurse stuck heart monitors on his chest, and an O2 monitor on his fingertip. A wearable thermometer that was hooked up to the computer screen was put on House's forehead, and his temperature made the screen start beeping.

"Is he going to die from the fever?" Blythe asked, startling Wilson, and he turned to look at her for a second before looking at the screen. "Can't you die from a fever that high?"

"It's going down. It was almost 106 in the other room," Cameron answered for him, and he was glad for it; they hadn't spoken since the argument three hours before. _Is it really 3 AM? _The adrenaline in his body was starting to wear off and his body was tired and sore from pinning House down to the floor.

House's temperature dropped a point as he stood there watching; 105.3 was better than it had been ten minutes ago.

"You should go change your pants," Cuddy said softly into Wilson's ear, and Wilson nodded, suddenly aware again that his knees were damp. "Take a shower and try to relax. Go find some coffee for us. We should talk when you're done."

"He might go into cardiac arrest, or have another seizure. Those medications we had to give him..." he trailed off, grimacing slightly at the look she gave him. _I'm not the only capable doctor here. I need to let them handle things sometimes. _"Where in the _hell _is Foreman? I asked for him twice back there, and you said you paged him. Where is he?"

Cuddy pursed her lips for a moment, watching House's pulse as it started to slow. His temperature was dropping quickly; 104.9 now.

"He's running tests still. He thinks he knows what's going on. He had enough blood for one more test, so he's going to spend the night in the lab to get it taken care of."

"Maybe I should help," Wilson said, and sighed when Cuddy gave him a sharp glare. "Fine. Please page me if something happens. Page me if he hiccups, even."

"Go." Cuddy pushed Wilson gently toward the door, and he glanced back once to watch House take a breath, and he left the room.

Wilson was surprised when one of his patients was standing at his door, clutching his IV pole and staring at House's room. When Wilson approached him, the man turned his eyes up and said softly, "he's a very sick man."

"Yes he is," Wilson agreed, stopping beside the man. Wilson couldn't remember the last time he'd seen any of his patients, and he guilt stabbed at him. "How are you feeling, Mark?"

"Better than Dr. House is, I imagine." The words shouldn't have made him angry, but they did. Wilson clenched his fists at his side, and he told himself over and over _he's one of your dying patients. Don't get upset with him._ "He means a lot to you, obviously." Wilson nodded once, and the man - who was in his 60s - gave him a small smile. "He has a terrific doctor, don't worry."

"Why are you still up at this hour?" Wilson asked weakly, anger draining from his body quickly. _He's dying. He's lonely. Be nice. You don't spend any time with your patients anymore._ "Do you need something to help you sleep? I'll be more than happy to help you get comfortable."

"I heard him screaming. I was worried. I'm as comfortable as I'm going to get, Dr. Wilson. Thank you. I'll pray for your friend tonight." Mark walked back into his room, closing the door behind him.

As Wilson made his way to the locker room, his patients words kept running through his head. _I'll pray for your friend tonight._ It made him laugh bitterly a few times. _Will praying really do anything for him? The guy is a walking sin._

Tears started stinging his eyes as Wilson took his shirt off in the locker room, and he held his breath, trying to stop them from falling. Another doctor was in the locker room - a man from Cardiology - and the last thing he needed was to be overheard crying. He undressed quickly, wrapping a towel around his waist and shoving his clothes into his locker roughly. He made his way to the showers and was relieved when the other doctor left the locker room as quickly as he'd come in, without saying anything to him. At 3 AM, most people won't talk.

Wilson stood under the hot water and felt his muscles start to relax under the heat. Tears mixed with the water, and he stopped himself short of breaking down into sobs. _I can't go through this. _He kept thinking, the images of House seizing and aspirating his own vomit flashing behind his eyelids. The feel of House's scorching skin on his own as he pinned him down made him scratch his arms, trying to get rid of the physical memory. The pain induced screams that had come from House echoed in Wilson's head, and he sobbed quietly with the memory. _He's in so much pain. He deserves to be at peace._

_I'll talk to his attorney when he gets here. We'll figure out what needs to be done if it comes to that. If we don't figure out what's wrong soon, the best I can do for him is make him comfortable._

Wilson finished his shower quickly and found a pair of scrubs at the bottom of his locker and pulled them on. _When was the last time I wore these?_ His best option were the scrubs, if House was going to continue to get sick. He clipped his pager onto the top of his pants, grateful that he hadn't been paged. He laced up his shoes and slammed his locker shut and strode from the room as fast as he could.

_I need to go home and get some clean clothes_ he thought as he got closer to House's room. He hadn't been at the hospital long - this would be the second night, now - but he was starting to itch to get out. _If I left and they couldn't stop organ failure. . ._

House was as he'd left him, which was good and bad. If Wilson walked in on another seizure, or a hallucination - _new symptom, have to write it on the board - _he would lose it. _Not unlike now, of course_. He smirked to himself at that. It was bad because he'd hoped House woke up while he was gone, though the sedative would keep him under for a while yet. _It's been a half an hour, and if he hasn't seized or had any side effects, maybe he'll be okay._

House's mother sat beside her son, clutching his hands in hers tightly. She looked up at Wilson, obviously exhausted. Wilson gave her a small smile, then looked at the screen to check his vitals.

"He's stable now," Cuddy said quietly from the corner of the room. She was curled up in the recliner, her shoes on the floor and a blanket on her lap.

Relief flooded Wilson as he read the screen himself. The fever was still there, but it was down to 102, and the ice packs were gone. A blanket was pulled up to his bare shoulders - they hadn't dressed him yet.

"James..I'm sorry for earlier." Blythe's uneasy tone brought Wilson's attention back to her. She hadn't moved, but she suddenly looked even smaller than when he'd come into the room.

"It's okay."

She shook her head and raised one of her hands to her son's face, gently brushing her fingers over his thin eyebrows. "I don't want my son to die like this. But if this can happen to him if he gets more treatment, maybe it's better he doesn't suffer any longer."

The words were almost the same as the ones Wilson had been thinking since he left the room, and it was somewhat a relief for him to hear her say them. The last thing he wanted to do was be the one in charge of deciding her son's death sentence without her understanding his reasons behind the choice.

_Acceptance._ Wilson knew about the stages of grief, he'd seen it and experienced it more times than he would like to count. The calm relief that he felt as he thought about this being it for House was an unexpected feeling. The last place in the world he wanted to be was here in this room, and the last thing he wanted to do was to hold another person as they died. But watching House over the last few days truly dying was wearing him down.

"It's going to work out just fine. The best doctors in the state are working on this case. We'll call people in if we have to," Cuddy said, keeping her tone firm. Wilson knew the last thing she was ready to accept was House's death, and as long as she was around, they probably would fight for an answer. It was infuriating and calming at the same time.

"I need some sleep," Wilson found himself saying, and was surprised that he'd said it at all. His body was starting to ache, and at the moment there wasn't any threat to House's life.

Cuddy smiled at him and started to stand up to give up her seat and Wilson shook his head. "I'll find an empty bed somewhere. Page me if anything happens. In the morning, I have patients I have to see, to save my sanity if nothing else." _Maybe I can be of more help to them._

"Take as much time as you need." Cuddy sat back in her chair and yawned behind her hand. "Taub and Kutner are helping Foreman run some more tests. They drew blood while you were gone."

Wilson nodded and briefly wondered about Thirteen - it seemed like _ages _ago that he'd thrown her out of the differential - then pushed her from his mind. "I'll be close by."

* * *

Sorry for the short chapter. I had to rearrange the next few chapters to make it all flow right. I've been getting **amazing** reviews from you guys; I really appreciate it.

This story will have no more than 30 chapters at this point.


	24. Chapter 24

I own nothing but the plot; thanks to my beta 3

* * *

House opened his eyes slowly, and wanted to close them and fall back asleep immediately. His eyelids were heavy, and his entire body ached. His shoulder and leg hurt badly, which immediately told him that he wasn't allowed pain meds again. _Damn. What happened? _He tensed, trying to piece together the night before. Morning light came in the room through the window, and the lights in the room were off; it was early morning still, from what he gathered.

"Mom?" He croaked, and realized he had an oxygen mask on, and the word sounded more like a groan than anything else. A moment later, he felt his mom's hands on his and he started to relax.

"It's okay baby. I'm right here," she soothed, and one of her hands came up to his forehead. He sighed softly, closing his eyes at the touch. "Go back to sleep. You need as much rest as you can get."

He forced his eyes back open and struggled to see past his mom's body. Cuddy was curled up in the recliner, sleeping. His heart beat painfully at the sight of her, sleeping in here, watching over him. _Maybe some people do care. Cuddy at least. Where's Wilson?_

"What happened?" He asked, his voice cracking. He reached for the pitcher of water, and his mom quickly got up to pour a cup and handed it to him. He whispered, "thanks" and drank it slowly. His throat burned, and he had a vague memory of screaming.

"Your fever spiked very high. You're okay now, though," his mom answered, pressing her hands to his face again. It was a huge comfort, and he was happy she was here. "James and the other doctors are taking very good care of you. You matter a lot to everyone." House grunted at that. _I matter to them?_ "Are you in pain? Do you want me to see if Dr. Taub can get you more sedatives? You've been asleep for almost four hours now, but you need as much rest as you can get. You need to get your strength up."

House's body ached everywhere, and if his fever had spiked, that would certainly explain why he hurt. He nodded to answer her question and closed his eyes.

What felt like minutes later, House opened his eyes to ask his mom something and was surprised to see the lights on and midday sun coming in through the window. Cuddy was no longer curled up in the recliner, and his mom was gone. Instead, Thirteen and Kutner were standing at the foot of the bed, staring back at him with smiles.

"You're doing better now," Kutner said, hooking the chart back on the foot of the bed. "Foreman is talking to your mom and Wilson, but we've figured out what's wrong with you, and you'll be fine after a few months of treatment."

The words confused House, and he tried to piece together what Kutner was saying with the memories in his head. None of it made sense. "What's wrong with me?"

"You have Thrombotic thrombocytopenic purpura. It was Foreman who figured it out, and he spent all night running the tests for it. You're going to survive this." Thirteen smiled at him, and he could see the strain it was causing her. She resented him.

"I have _two _diseases?" He asked and gripped the rails on his bed and pulled himself upright slowly. For the first time in days he didn't get dizzy from the quick movement. "I don't remember being sick with TTP. Are you sure?"

"Positive. Here are the results," Kutner answered, handing House's patient file across the bed to him. House watched him cautiously and slowly took it from him. He opened the folder and started reading the lab work, and saw for himself that he was going to be fine.

"Oh, thank God." House looked up at who spoke and couldn't stop a small smile from forming when his mom rushed to him. She smiled back at him and threw her arms around his shoulders with a small cry. He put a hand on her back gently and patted her shoulders awkwardly. "Did they tell you what's going on? You're going to be okay, honey. And once you start getting better, you can finish your cancer treatment."

House looked over his mom's shoulder as she pulled back and met Wilson's eyes. Wilson nodded, agreeing with what his mom just said, and gave him a pleading look. House studied his friend, and was surprised to see how bad he looked. Dark circles under his eyes told him he'd lost sleep, and his face was drawn and pale. His eyes were puffy, and House knew he'd been crying. _I was really sick then._

"Nice scrubs," House said, breaking the silence. Wilson smiled a little.

"You pissed on my good pants. I left them in your office so you can dry clean them when you get better."

"They'll be ruined by the time I feel like going back to work. I'm taking a vacation, remember?" House raised his eyebrows, and the relieved smile on Wilson's face confirmed that he'd been very sick. "What time is it? When was I talking to you earlier, mom?"

"It's 3:30 now. You woke up for a minute at around seven this morning, but you fell asleep very quickly." His mom smiled again, and he couldn't help but feel guilty for putting her through this. He remembered telling Wilson to call his mom, but it was such a blur, and he knew that if he'd been thinking clearly he wouldn't have had her called.

Wilson put his hands on his mom's shoulders and said, "I want to give him a physical and talk to him privately for a few minutes. Maybe he'll be able to keep something down now? Do you want something from the cafeteria, House?"

"Do _you _want something from the cafeteria? Have you been starving yourself so you could try to look good for me when I came to? I appreciate the effort, Jimmy," House said with a wink, and he grinned when Thirteen and Kutner groaned simultaneously as they left the room.

After the room was emptied, Wilson pulled a chair up beside the bed and sat down.

"I'm happy you're up. We were really worried for a while there," Wilson said, touching the IV tubes briefly before raising his eyes to House's. He gave him a sad smile, and House frowned. "Your fever spiked to almost 106 last night."

"I pissed on your pants?" House asked, a small smile threatening to crack into a bigger one.

Wilson sighed softly and nodded. "Your cath was pulled out when you fell out of your bed. There was blood in your vomit, but we checked it out while you've been asleep and it's fine. Your esophagus is inflamed from you getting sick so much. You'll be okay though." Wilson frowned and rubbed his eyes tiredly. House heard what Wilson didn't say: he'll be fine until his cancer takes him. "You had a few seizures, but we took you for a CT two hours ago and there's no permanent damage. Your treatment for your TTP will take some time, but the symptoms will be easily manageable now that we know what's wrong."

House stayed quiet, trying to gather his memories together. "How long have I been here?"

"This will be the third day. It's been rough." Wilson smiled bitterly at memories House couldn't remember, or begin to guess.

"Have you been here this whole time?" House asked, moving his hand to his thigh to massage gently. The muscles were tight and achy.

"I haven't left the hospital. Hence the scrubs," Wilson said, gesturing to the wrinkled clothes he wore. House smirked again.

"And those are hot on you, don't let anyone tell you otherwise."

Wilson smiled for a second at the weak joke, then his face fell back into a lost puppy look. House struggled to think of something - anything - to talk about, to make Wilson smile and not look so forlorn. It made his stomach hurt at how depressed he looked.

"What aren't you telling me?" He asked, the smile slipping from his face. Wilson looked up again and forced a grin, but his eyes were tired and told House more than words would.

"You were going to die if we couldn't figure out what was wrong, and . . I would have let you." Wilson's voice cracked at the end and he lowered his face into his hands. House stared at the top of his head, surprised by the admission, and did the only thing he could think of. He laughed quietly, every muscle in his body protesting at the movement, but he couldn't stop. He raised his hand to Wilson's shoulder and squeezed it. "Why are you laughing?" Wilson asked, his head still in his hands. House pulled his hands away from his face, causing Wilson to hesitantly meet his eyes.

"If you couldn't figure out what was wrong, I would've died whether you tried to help me or not. It's not like you giving up on me would've killed me any differently. I remember enough of the last few days to know that I put you in charge of my medical decisions. I trusted you to make the best choice. If I died and you sat there and did nothing except make sure I was unconscious for it all, that would have been the best choice. Why are you being such a woman about all of this?"

"You weren't really there," Wilson said, trying to find words to explain what he was thinking. House raised his eyebrows in irritation. "You just looked pathetic. I couldn't come to terms with you dying for so long, and in the end I gave up. I couldn't watch you suffer anymore. It was horrible."

"You're making me suffer now. This is _agonizing_. You didn't let me die, unfortunately, and now here I am. End of story." House rolled his neck to stretch out his muscles and groaned softly. "When am I allowed to get my Vicodin? I assume the pain medication was negatively affecting me before, but I'm better, right? I need something. The fever I got because you didn't want to let me suffer made all of my muscles hurt."

"You don't get it. You were going to die, House! You're still dying, and there's not one damn thing I can do about it." Wilson bowed his head again and House watched him raise a hand to wipe at his face. He sighed.

"You can sit here and cry, if you want," House offered gently, and bit back a smile when Wilson raised his head to glare at him. "Did Cuddy's bitch rub off on you? Why are you doing this? I'm not hallucinating, am I?"

Wilson muttered something under his breath that House didn't quite catch, except for the word 'prick', and he tilted his head to the side in thought.

"OHH!" House said loudly, snapping his fingers. Wilson looked startled. "_I know_ what your problem is. It's the cancer thing, isn't it? The whole 'I'm not getting treatment' thing, right?" Wilson opened his mouth but House cut him off. "Do you want me to get treatment? Is that it? Are you crying and sulking and pulling this puppy dog crap because you want to guilt me into going all the way with recovery?"

"Are you joking? I would _love _itif you got treatment, but I know you won't, and I've given up on that hope. Have you not listened to what I've been saying? You could have died today and I wasn't going to do one thing to help you. You may not care about that, but I'm still freaking out."

"I can die _any _day. Here, I'll stroke your ego for you. Will that make your conscience feel better? Oh, James Wilson, your doctoring skills are amazing. If you didn't cry over my body at the exact moment necessary, I would have fallen to the gates of Hell for sure," House said, making his voice breathy, trying to sound awed. "You are just so incredible. Can I come home with you tonight to show you how much I appreciate your big, awesome diagnostic abilities?"

"Forget it." Wilson shook his head and started to stand up, but House reached out and grabbed his hand to stop him. Wilson looked down at their hands, and as he raised his head back up, House pulled his hand away.

"Thank you," House said quietly, keeping his eyes locked with Wilson's. He tried to convey as many emotions in the look as he could; he needed Wilson to feel better. "You are a good friend to me."

Wilson smiled then, a small, genuine smile. It made House's tense muscles relax a little. "You don't need to lie to me. You and I both know how you really feel about me."

"Of course I know how I feel about you. They're _my_ feelings." House watched Wilson sit back down in the chair, and waited for him to say more. When he didn't, House said, "so tell me about everyone. Who was careless and who didn't help me out at all?"

The change of topic was a good one, and House sat back against the raised mattress and listened as Wilson started talking. "Thirteen didn't think anything was wrong with you and she made me kick her out of a differential."

"You held a differential? For me?" House asked, surprised, then he winked again. "You sly dog, you."

Wilson talked right over him, ignoring the words. "I threatened to fire her. She's apologized since, but I'm still angry with her. Taub agreed with Thirteen for a while, then backed off and helped me out. Kutner was the only one who was pretty consistent. Chase is the only one who hasn't really been around, but he's had surgeries. He came by once to check on you, and Cameron's been here enough that she's probably keeping him updated. That's all there is to say about that. Everyone's been here 'round the clock for you. You matter to them, even if you don't think so. Hell, a week ago I wouldn't have thought so, either."

"Thirteen is _so_ in trouble." House looked up at the door and saw his mom standing on the other side, waiting. He held up a finger to tell her to give them a minute more. When she nodded, he sighed and dropped his hand. _Just tell him something. _ "Okay Wilson. I'll do consolidation therapy. You can stop nagging me." The words were out of his mouth before he had time to think of what he was saying, and by the time they were in the open he couldn't do anything but go with it.

"I wasn't -" Wilson started, then cut himself off. He looked up at House with wide eyes, obviously surprised. "You will? You swear?"

"People care about me." House shrugged, and winced when his shoulder stung. _I'm entirely too sober right now to be making important decisions._

"Please tell me I'm wrong here, but have you been saying you won't get treatment just so people will show they care about you?" Wilson asked incredulously, and anger started to spark in his eyes. "That's the worst thing you've ever done to me. I can't believe you." House fumbled through his mind for a proper reaction, and the right words to ease Wilson's mind.

House arched an eyebrow at him and said, "of course I wasn't just saying that to get attention. I can't stand to see you so depressed. It's destroying my chi. If it'll make you stop moping and start acting normal, I'll do it. But I want it to be kept between us. I want to see if my team will do a more efficient job of listening to me and taking care of me if they think I'm still dying." _It'll get them off of my back._

Wilson stared at House for a few heartbeats, searching House's eyes for some kind of answer, before throwing himself forward and putting his arms around House's shoulders. House grunted as the impact made his muscles tense, and he closed his eyes, focusing on his breathing for a few moments before Wilson pulled back. He gave House a bright smile that made House's chest hurt in guilt. House was embarrassed and flattered when he saw Wilson's eyes sparkling with tears. "You _really_ don't know what it's been like the last few days. I was ready to say good-bye to you." House nodded, not trusting his voice - the last thing he wanted to do was say something the wrong way and either piss of Wilson, or make himself cry - and he pushed Wilson gently to get him off of the bed.

He cleared his throat and said, "the last thing I want when I'm on my death bed is for you to cry over me and say good-bye."

Wilson closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose momentarily. "I can't _not_ say good-bye to you. But..you're serious about this, right?" The look Wilson gave him made him feel worse, and the back of his eyes stung suddenly. He _really_ didn't want to go through with any kind of treatment, not because he wanted to die, not really. But because he'd just spent a week saying he wouldn't do anything else after his first round of chemotherapy, and he wasn't one to purposely make an ass out of himself.

"I'm not sure," House managed to say before he turned his head and hid his eyes from Wilson. _Don't fucking cry. This is stupid_.

"House.." Wilson trailed off, and House's throat tightened a little. He couldn't look up at him, not like this. "It's going to be fine, you know that, right? We'll all be professional, I'll make sure the fellows stay in line and . . do you _really_ want us to treat you?"

Images flashed behind House's eyelids of . . . something. _We'll take care of you, if you really want_. Cuddy had said that, hadn't she? Last night, when he was sick.

_That damn hallucination._

"I had an epiphany, sort of," House managed to say, clearing his throat quietly after he said the words. _I thought they'd kill me. _

"I know it's been hard, but you've pulled through. You're much better and there's nowhere to go but up from here." Wilson's hand touched House's shoulder briefly, and House dropped his head in resignation.

"What did I put my hand in last night?" He asked quietly, rubbing his hand on his leg suddenly as if he could wipe away the memory of the black chunks that had come from his boss.

Wilson hesitated a moment before saying, "you pushed yourself backwards through your vomit. Why? What did you think it was?"

"Nothing," House answered, shaking his head to dismiss the question. He blinked past the tears that remained in his eyes and glanced up at Wilson briefly with a weak smile. "Who had to clean me up?"

"Cuddy and I did. I wouldn't let her clean. . you know," Wilson said, putting his hand on the back of his neck, embarrassed. House stared at him silently, debating whether he should be mad or laugh it off; it _was_ sort of humorous, but degrading at the same time. _Sliding around the floor in your own piss and puke. Nice_.

"Well," he said finally, shrugging awkwardly. "My prepubescent package would scare her off for good if she'd had that job."

Wilson smiled at that and his arm dropped from his neck in relief. The smile fell from his face after a second. "Are you _sure_ about this? I can't watch you suffer anymore. I know it's selfish and I'm sorry for that. But after last night. . you scared the hell out of me."

"You should've seen what I was seeing. _Then_ you'd be scared," House muttered, and waved off the words before Wilson could ask again what he meant. "Yeah, I'm sure."

"Thank you." Wilson smiled again, looking _so_ tired, but he truly looked happy. _He wanted my life taken instead of Amber's once upon a time._ The thought made House sigh. _This is why I don't have friends. My existence hurts them more than anything_.

House only nodded in response to the thanks, and Wilson waited a moment before nodding himself. "I'm going to go home and shower, and maybe have a full night's sleep. Call me if you need anything."

"Goodnight, lover!" House called after him as Wilson opened the door. He watched him walk away from the room, as his mom and Cuddy came in, and sighed in relief. "Cuddy," he said, turning his attention to her. "I'm glad you're here. My leg hurts." He tried to push all thoughts of Wilson and the conversation they had out of his head. "When can I get out of here?"

* * *

For anyone interested, I've got quite a few ideas for stories when this one is complete. Some *will* be Hilson, some will be Huddy, some will be general friendship. Don't be sad that this one is coming to an end; I'm actually very proud of myself. I usually give up on stories halfway through because I lose interest :p

You guys motivated me to keep going. Thank you so much 3


	25. Chapter 25

Thanks to my beta, my SUPER AWESOME readers, and for the record, I don't own the characters :)

* * *

House stared up at Wilson with terrified eyes. "Oh, God, please help me," he moaned, and lowered his head as he started projectile vomiting blood all over the floor. Wilson got onto his knees beside House, who was on his knees and hands, groaning and retching.

"I don't know what's wrong!" Wilson cried, putting his hands on House's back, trying to soothe him. It was useless.

"Please just let me die," House begged, raising his head to stare at Wilson. Red tears rolled down his cheeks, and he started sobbing. "I don't want to live anymore. I can't deal with this pain. Please just kill me."

"I can't do that, Greg. I can't kill you," Wilson whispered, running his hand up and down his friend's back more. House let out a long, sorrowful cry and his arms gave out.

Wilson watched hopelessly as House collapsed into his own blood and started retching more. "Please," House sobbed when he got a breath. "James, please don't make me suffer through this." All Wilson could do was force his tears to stop and try to be strong. He tried to grab House's arm to pull him out of his own fluids, but he was too heavy and Wilson couldn't budge him at all. "Don't move me. It hurts too much. Stop forcing me to do what you want! I'm not going to get better. Please just stop it," House whimpered and slowly curled himself into a fetal position, violent sobs racking his body.

"Oh, for Heaven's sake!" The new voice sounded exasperated, and Wilson turned his head to the doorway of the hospital room and saw Cuddy standing there with her hands on her hips. "Is he _still_ alive? What are you doing to him? Look at him, he's dying right in front of you, and you can't even cry with him and let him go. This is ridiculous. I'll do it myself."

Stunned, Wilson moved away from House slowly and got onto his feet. Cuddy reached into her coat pocket and pulled out a small gun.

"What..?" Wilson whispered, reaching out to take the weapon from her. "Don't you love him? Don't shoot him!"

Cuddy stared at him with a sympathetic smile and said, "of course I love him, James. That's why I'm doing this. He deserves a quick death, not what you're putting him through. Now either move out of the way, or risk getting hurt. I'm not a great shot."

Wilson's eyes bulged as she raised the gun, pointing it at House's violently shaking figure. He was crying still, begging for someone to end it. Cuddy looked down the barrel of the gun and said softly, "I love you Greg. Rest in peace now."

As she pulled the trigger, Wilson screamed and shot upright in his bed. It was dark in the room, and in his groggy state he cried, "GREG?!" Frantically, his mind raced, trying to remember where he was, what was going on, and most importantly if House was still alive.

After a moment, Wilson realized his pager was going off beside the bed, and the last remnants of the nightmare shattered when his memories flooded back. _He's alive, and he's okay, and he's going to do treatment. He's alive. I'm home._

The pager on his bedside table continued to screech at him, and he rolled over to grab it. He squinted at the screen and half sobbed, half laughed, at the message. He picked up his cell phone and saw that it was 2 AM, and he dialed a number he hoped he'd always get to call.

"Sorry, did I wake you?" House asked when he answered after the third ring. Wilson let out another breathy laugh.

"Nice message," Wilson said, looking down at the screen of his pager again. " 'He's asleep, meet me in the janitor's closet by the Clinic, love Mrs. House'. Really, that's inappropriate in so many ways."

"I didn't send that! My mom is so nasty." House chuckled and Wilson shook his head, glancing at the clock again. "Did I wake you?"

"_Yes_, you woke me."

"Good. I'm hungry."

"House, it's 2 in the morning! Nothing is open right now." Wilson put his feet on the floor and started walking toward his kitchen, flipping blinding lights on as he went. His eyes were heavy, but he didn't think he'd go to sleep for a while once they got off the phone. He flipped on his coffee pot, which he'd set up before he had gone to bed.

"Fine. I don't need to eat, it's okay," House said dejectedly. "I guess I'll see you when you come into work in the morning."

"Why are you up at this hour? Shouldn't you be knocked out on some kind of tranquilizers or something?" Wilson opened his refrigerator and started moving things around to find something quick and easy to make. _He needs to eat, and I won't be going back to sleep anyway._ He couldn't help but feel like he was doing something wrong by giving into House this easily, though.

"Cuddy's been giving me Vicodin every four hours since you left. I'm high enough right now that I started having weird dreams and now I can't fall asleep at all. The nurse won't let me leave the room, can you believe that? I told her I know the guy who runs the ward, but I don't think she believes me," House sighed into the phone, and Wilson smiled to himself. It was good to hear him being himself.

"Why is she giving you Vicodin that often?" Wilson cradled the phone between his shoulder and ear and spooned rice and chicken onto a plate to microwave.

House was silent for a moment, then he said, "she's only giving me two pills every time. It's not that much, and I'm still in a lot of pain. Do you have any Vicodin there? Or can you stop by my place and get some?"

Wilson sighed, putting the plate in the microwave and pressing the time cook button to heat it. He started walking back to his room to get changed. "I can't do that tonight, House. Maybe tomorrow, or today I guess now. Your kidneys are still failing, and we're starting you on dialysis soon. Just tough it out for the next few hours. Two pills every four hours is better than the nothing you were getting before."

"You are such a buzz kill."

"Do you want coffee, too?" Wilson asked, pulling his pants on and buttoning them up.

"With a shot of hydrocodone, yes please."

"No Vicodin!" Wilson said, and hung up when House started laughing. He pulled on a clean shirt and went to the bathroom to finish getting ready while the coffee brewed.

_It's after two in the morning. Why am I doing this?_ He thought, covering his mouth as he yawned. _That nightmare really got to me. That's why I'm doing this._ He sighed to himself and, thankful that he had no hair to have to mess with, he hurried to leave for the hospital.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

The hospital was eerily hushed at almost 3 AM, and Wilson realized as he walked down the hall that he made a similar trek in the same halls just 24 hours before. _He's not dying now, so I don't have to keep doing this_. But he knew he would keep doing it, because he _did_ have to. House is a fragile person, regardless of what he tries to make people believe. He could change his mind about treatment at any moment, like he had the day before when he agreed to do it out of nowhere, and Wilson knew that he wouldn't be able to go through that disappointment and grief again if he decided not to do it. If everyone showed they cared, they supported him, and they would be there no matter the hour, maybe he won't have second thoughts about living.

When he got to House's room, he paused, watching his chest rise and fall slowly. Wilson smiled to himself, enjoying the moment - House was breathing normally, without an oxygen mask, and his vitals were perfect. It was beautiful.

Quietly, Wilson opened the door, and House startled awake. His body jolted a little, and he groaned before opening an eye to glare. Wilson sat down beside him with apologies for waking him, and he put his hot thermos of coffee on the table beside the plate of leftover chicken and rice. When he turned back to House to talk to him, House was still staring at him, muttering something under his breath.

"What?" Wilson asked, pulling back the plastic wrap on the plate and sticking a fork onto the plate.

House blinked at him slowly, and Wilson froze, his eyes searching House's face. His eyes had a distant look, and he was whispering to himself. His body was still jerking every few seconds. The heart monitor started beeping and Wilson cursed and hit the nurse call button, pulling the table away from the bed as he stood up.

When the nurse came in, Wilson looked over his shoulder and said, "he's having a seizure. Get me 1 milligram of clonazepam and your flashlight." He turned to House and pulled the flashlight from the nurse's hand and lifted House's eyelids to check his pupils. He was still jerking and his eyes were starting to roll back. "Can you hear me, House?" He knew he wouldn't get an answer, but it was worth a shot. The nurse came back to the side of the bed quickly and pushed the medication into House's IV and they waited, holding their breaths, until his body stopped jolting and his eyes closed.

After a few moments in silence, House opened his eyes and looked up at Wilson. "Finally. That.." he trailed off and put his hand to his forehead and massaged his temple. "What..? Wilson?"

Wilson put his hand gently on House's shoulder and gave him an encouraging smile. "It's okay. You had a small clonic seizure. You're fine." His mind raced, trying to figure out why he was still seizing. _It's just the TTP, he's still getting better._

"How long?" House asked, sitting up slowly, wincing with the effort. Wilson pulled the table back up to the bed and sat down cautiously. keeping his eyes on House's face to make sure he was really okay.

"30 seconds. It's the TTP, and the fact that you didn't have a grand mal is great. You're still going to have symptoms until you're completely treated. Here, have some food, and I'll get you water." Wilson hesitated before turning to the nurse who was still standing in the doorway, unsure of what to do. She nodded before he could ask and she left the room to get a new pitcher of fresh water.

House picked up the fork and dropped it immediately. He opened his hand and closed it a few times before trying again. He grasped it tightly and scooped rice up, but his hand was shaking too much to get it to his mouth. After another attempt, House threw the fork down and pushed the table away in agitation.

"Forget it. I'm not hungry anyway."

"Do you want me to help you?" Wilson asked, reaching for the fork.

"No." The one word held so much emotion that Wilson turned, surprised. House was glaring at his lap, angry and embarrassed.

"Fine." Wilson frowned and checked his watch. He didn't know what to do now, and didn't even know why he came at all. _For support_ he thought, but knew that his support wouldn't mean a whole lot anyway. _Waste of time. Better than having nightmares though._

House looked up at him and said, "I didn't just call you to make you give up your night away from here. It was stupid of me to call you. You should just go back home and sleep."

"Why _did_ you call me?" Wilson scrunched his forehead in thought and studied House carefully. He had a little color in his face, which was wonderful to see after the gaunt and sickly look he'd had for days.

"I didn't mean to agree to consolidation therapy," he confessed, and dropped his eyes back to his lap. Wilson's breath caught in his throat and he felt suddely cold. _Oh no..no no no_.

"House..."

His friend looked up at him, his eyes wide and he looked scared. "I'm not ready to die."

"Then don't. You don't have to, not yet," Wilson said softly, putting his hands on the bed beside House's arm slowly. "It's going to be so much easier than chemo, I promise."

House nodded and raised his hand to scratch his head slowly. Without looking over he said, "I'm only doing it for you."

_Shit_. "Don't do it for me. Do it for _you_."

"I don't want to die, but I don't want to keep doing this treatment either. I'm so sore from being in this bed and having seizures and fevers. My chest is always hurting because I can't get enough air. My throat is killing me. I'm fed up with this, but the alternative would be worse for everyone, not just me."

Wilson stopped a smile from creeping onto his face, and he lifted his fingers from the bed and put them on the back of House's hand. "You aren't being self centered right now."

"Please don't tell anyone," House whispered, and Wilson allowed a smile at that. House glanced up at him and smiled a little back. "I trust you to take care of me."

"I will." Wilson promised and pulled the table back in front of House. "Eat. And once you eat, we'll go walk around. I know the guy who runs this ward."

"I'm going to be so pissed if the nurses believe you over me," House muttered, and picked up the fork again. His hand didn't shake this time, and he immediately started eating. Wilson smiled again, relieved and optimistic.

House ate half of the food, drank some water and had a cup of coffee before he felt strong enough to walk around. Wilson turned off the machines and took the heart and O2 monitors off, then moved to the side of the bed and carefully unhooked the catheter bag from the frame and hooked it onto the IV pole. He handed House his cane and took hold of the IV pole, and they started slowly walking out of the room toward the hallway. The nurses looked up from their station, but looked away when they saw Wilson.

"Yeah, I told you guys I knew him!" House said loudly, and the women shook their heads with smiles, laughing softly to each other. Wilson smiled, and racked his brain for something to talk about while they walked. They only walked to the opposite end of the nurse's station across from House's room, and House walked painfully slow, wincing with every step he took.

"Maybe this was a bad idea. You're still recovering." Wilson risked a glance at House, who was shaking his head, staring forward in determination.

"I have to do this."

"You don't have to prove anything to me." Wilson frowned as House leaned his cane against the wall as they got to their halfway point. House stood a few feet away and slowly reached out to the wall in a stretch.

"Are they looking at my ass?" House asked, and Wilson glanced back at the nurse's to humor him. _Just let it go._

"Nope. They're completely unimpressed," Wilson answered, patting House on the back gently. "Better luck next time."

"Damn. I hoped that if I was seen with you, I'd get at least one of the chicks. You can have whatever one doesn't want me. Next time I'll play the cripple card when I'm ready for my sponge bath." House picked up his cane and ran his hand along the top slowly. When Wilson raised his eyebrows questioningly, House said, "baths make my leg feel better. And other things, which is where the nurse comes in."

Wilson was silent for a few moments as they started back to House's room, and he glanced a few times at the nurses, then at House. House was focusing on staying upright, paying no mind to the three other people occupying the station, and the nurses sometimes glanced at them to be sure the doctors were fine.

Once out of earshot and near the room, Wilson said in a hushed tone, "you know, I bet if you were nice to one of them, they'd go on a date with you."

House stumbled and swore loudly when most of his weight was placed on his bad leg, and he looked at Wilson angrily. "Are you Cupid of the cancer unit?"

Wilson shrugged. "Obviously you think one of them is cute since you wanted to walk around at 3:30 in the morning and show your ass off. And remember what I told you earlier? You could be happy and have a very fulfilling life if you stopped talking yourself out of relationships and dates."

"Shut up Wilson. You're an idiot." House yawned as he pushed his door open and waited for Wilson to push the IV pole inside before following. Wilson watched him limp, wincing with every step, and couldn't help but feel relieved that he was up and walking around at all, telling him to shut up and calling him names. _A huge improvement since last night._ House yawned again and looked up at Wilson for a brief moment, his eyes looking suddenly heavy.

House climbed into his bed with quiet groans, and stayed upright long enough to push the button on his bed remote to lower the top of the matress. He fell onto his left side when the bed lay flat and groaned but didn't move. Wilson carefully untangled the IV lines before pulling the blanket up around House's waist. House's chest was rising and falling quickly, and Wilson frowned, moving around the bed to put the heart and O2 monitors back on House's chest and finger.

"How are you _honestly _feeling?" Wilson asked, flipping on the machines beside the bed and turning on the oxygen. He raised the tubes and gently placed them around House's ears, making sure the oxygen was going into his nose.

"Tired. My chest aches a little, but nothing unbearable or worrisome. I walked too much. Those stupid nurses were right when they said I shouldn't walk around," House muttered, blinking slowly. Each time his eyes closed, it took longer for his eyes to reopen. "Can you help me?" House mumbled, moving his right arm slowly, trying to direct Wilson somewhere. "My shoulder," he said when Wilson looked confused.

"Well don't lay on your _broken_ shoulder in the first place." Wilson shook his head and pushed his left hand on House's good shoulder, and together - though it was mainly Wilson - they situated House onto his back.

House looked up at Wilson with a defeated sigh. "When do we start my new medication?"

"Let's give it a few days and get your TTP under control. That way you'll have your strength up and we won't have to risk seizures and heart attacks." Wilson raised his hand to House's forehead and pressed his wrist to the skin. He almost laughed in excitement; House no longer had a fever.

"Do I still get my Vicodin?" House asked, and Wilson glanced at House's hand, which was slowly massaging his thigh.

"As much as you had before." Wilson's eyes flicked to the IV bags. "I'm going to get you some more fluids. Don't move."

House smiled at that and raised his hand to salute Wilson, obviously groggy, and his eyes closed. Wilson left the room and walked up to the nurses, who both looked up with smiles. "He needs more fluids, and I want to give him a little more Vicodin than Cuddy had ordered. He needs his rest, and his leg and shoulder are hurting him too much to get all of the sleep he needs."

"Yes doctor," one nurse said, smiling, and she moved out of her chair and left the area quickly to get what he asked for. Wilson looked over his shoulder at House, and sighed in relief when he saw his hand was no longer rubbing his thigh and his chest was rising and falling in even breaths.

_Just one more week. Hang in there._


	26. Chapter 26

I don't own anything but the plot. Many thanks to my beta, ShaiWatson.

* * *

The next morning, House asked Cameron to find him a relatively new medical book with information about AML and treatment. He figured that if he was going to do this for sure, he might as well be completely educated on it. He knew a lot, but didn't know _everything_ about every disease, and he was tired of blindly going forward with everything. It wasn't that he didn't trust Wilson, it was just easier to argue when he knew what he was talking about.

"Where's James?" Blythe asked when she came in for the day at 9 AM. House looked up at her briefly from his book and shrugged, lowering his eyes back to the page. She sat down beside him and kept talking, distracting him from his thoughts. "I'd have thought he would be here by now. Is he okay?"

"Yeah he's fine. He was visiting late last night. I don't know where he went off to," House answered, and flipped a page in his book. "AML can spread to the brain mom. Maybe that's what's wrong with my personality. It's not my fault people hate me, it's my disease."

"There's nothing wrong with you at all. Don't talk like that." She put her hand on his forehead and smiled. "You're looking better, and your fever broke. When do you get to go home?"

"I don't know. Tomorrow probably. I'm sure someone will tell me eventually." House didn't looked up at her when he answered, scratching his head idly while his eyes roamed the pages. "You can get going whenever you want. I'm not going to relapse now, and I start my treatment back up in a week."

Blythe pursed her lips and didn't speak until House raised his eyes to hers, waiting for her response. She sighed and said, "I've got nothing to do at home, and I'll be too worried about you to function alone."

"Mom, really, I'm fine. I'm going to try to get back to work in a few days anyway." He almost added _you're cramping my style_ but bit it back, deciding that it wasn't appropriate to tell his mom that now. "I appreciate you being here. I do. But it's so boring, and there isn't going to be anymore drama."

A knock on the door made Blythe's reply die on her lips as they both turned their attention to the door. Wilson was standing there with a smile, holding a file in his hands. He had on his white coat, which meant he was in doctor mode now, and House closed his book to give him his full attention.

"Good morning. How are you feeling?" Wilson asked, walking to the bed and glancing over the vitals, the catheter bag and IV bags as he pulled up a chair.

"I figured you wouldn't be back. What's in the folder?" House reached for the green cardboard, and Wilson held it out of reach, protesting.

"Wait, wait, wait. These are just the bone marrow biopsy results that we did a few days ago. I'm just going over the course of treatment with you, to explain what we're doing. Your body won't handle another bout of chemotherapy, but I'm hoping maybe one more chemo treatment wouldn't be too risky. The cancer cell numbers are so low that one or two more days of chemo might help you out, and since you'll be here for a while, it's worth a shot."

House drew his eyebrows together, confused. "I could have died from chemo and you want me to do it again?"

"Your body was weak from the undiagnosed TTP. If we start chemo in two or three days after you've been receiving treatment for the other disease, you might not have any problems at all. Just two treatments, tops, and you'll be here," Wilson said, pushing the folder in House's hands. "You don't have to decide now, but since you're already here..."

"What do you mean I'll be here for a while? I was hoping to leave tomorrow." House looked down at the results and remembered a hazy memory of looking at them before. _Wilson's right about the treatment, though. Benefits outweigh the risks. Consolidation therapy won't help me if I'm not considered in remission._

"No. I don't let any of my patients leave for at least a week after chemotherapy. You, especially, because your immune system is pretty shot right now."

At least Wilson had the grace to look embarrassed after he said it. House glared up at him and said, "you never told me that. Why?"

"I'm sorry," was all Wilson could say, and he shrugged a little.

"That's fine. You're going to stay, and get better. You promised you'd get treatment," Blythe said encouragingly, looking from Wilson to House. She looked panicked. "You _have_ to. You promised me."

"I know mom. Don't worry," House glanced at her to reassure her, then turned his glare back to Wilson. "Anything else you want to drop on me while we're here?"

"I booked us a vacation this morning. We'll leave in a month, and we'll spend a week in Vegas. Unless you want to go on a cruise or something." Wilson smiled and plucked the folder from House's hands.

House shook his head, backtracking in his mind to the previous subject. "Why can't we do a stem cell transplant? Put me in the system to find a match."

Wilson sighed. "We can't do that. You have other options right now. That's a last resort option and we're not ready for that step. I promise, if it gets to that point, we'll do it, but for now let's just focus on wiping out the cells with Cytarabine treatment."

House silently debated what Wilson said, then nodded in defeat. Blythe kissed his forehead, and whispered, "I love you", and sat back in her chair. Wilson smiled approvingly, and clapped House on the shoulder.

"You're going to get through this. I know it."

_I better for everything I'm going through_ he thought dryly, and raised his eyes to Wilson's. "Please tell me we're staying at that playboy bunny hotel at least."

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Wilson ran down the hall from his office, and darted into House's room in a panic. The heart monitor was screeching loudly - his heart stopped beating. Nurses stood at the foot of the bed, each wearing a blank expression, and Wilson couldn't understand why they weren't doing anything to help.

"Get me a crash cart!" He yelled at them, reaching the bed in a second and tearing open House's gown. He gasped at the sight of burns on his chest, bleeding, blistered and raw. "What the hell happened to his chest?"

"We tried to save him," one nurse said, her voice deadpan. Wilson shook his head, trying to find a pulse, though he knew it was useless.

"I just ripped his gown open! There's no way you already did this. GET ME A CRASH CART!" Wilson screamed as he laced his fingers together and started compressing House's chest. "Breathe, House. Now. Breathe." He counted to 15, then blew into House's mouth twice. He put his face near his friend's mouth and fingers on his neck, and when he didn't feel a breath or a pulse, he started CPR again.

A moment later, a crash cart was being brought into the room, the nurse walking casually. Wilson charged the paddles and whispered apologies, then placed them on top of his burns. He shocked House's heart, and waited. Nothing happened. He shocked again. Nothing.

Wilson didn't know how much time had passed. He would shock House's heart a few times, then start CPR again, switching between the two until someone shut off the computer screen, silencing the heart monitor's taunting scream.

Hands on his shoulders, and Wilson looked up, clutching the paddles hopelessly. He blinked a few times, trying to see clearly at the person in front of him. _How long have I been crying?_

House smirked at Wilson. He had that _you are such an idiot_ look on his face, and Wilson dropped the paddles to the floor so he could raise both hands to House's face. When his fingertips touched House's skin, he sobbed and put his arms around House's body, crying into his chest.

_Wait. He's dead._

Wilson pulled back, and the world swam for a moment before settling. He was standing in House's apartment now, boxes littering the floor, most half filled with House's belongings. Wilson's hands were shaking, and he looked down, and moaned. A picture of the two of them in Vegas, before he died of heart failure from cancer. House had a light fuzz on his head and his cheeks were fuller and had color. His eyes didn't look so dark. All signs that he was healthier, that he was definitely better.

The test results had lied.

Wilson dropped the framed photo onto the floor and watched it numbly as it shattered. Their week had been spent at the Palms, and House had nearly been tossed out on his ass for, well, being an ass.

_It was such a great trip_ Wilson thought sadly, and raised his eyes to the piano. _House loved his piano._

_Wait. We didn't go to Vegas._

As Wilson walked to the piano, the room shifted and he was walking across green grass. He was watching the ground, hands in his dress pants, trying desperately to ignore the world around him. Hands on his back and words of sympathy from co-workers rolled off of him without ever registering in his brain.

_I found all of his Vicodin, and his morphine stash._ Wilson's hand closed around the pill bottle in his pocket. _Tonight._

Wilson stopped behind the rows of chairs that faced House's coffin. _He didn't want to be buried_. Tears stung his eyes and he silently prayed that House would forgive him for not cremating him. Blythe House convinced Wilson to do it her way. They fought about whether to bury House by John, and Wilson had finally snapped '_John wasn't his real father anyway. The last place House would want to be buried against his will would be next to that asshole_.' Blythe was turned in her chair, staring blankly at Wilson for a long moment before turning her back on him.

"He was a wonderful doctor."

Wilson turned to the person who spoke, and nodded in agreement. He didn't recognize the woman, and he looked around, finally taking in his surroundings. He didn't recognize at least half of the people here, and was surprised when he recognized a few that weren't co-workers.

_His old patients._

"He saved my life," a man was saying a few feet away to another man. "He wasn't very good at bedside manner, but he was a damn good doctor. It's a shame he died of brain cancer."

_Not brain cancer._ Wilson closed his eyes, suddenly feeling hot. He took deep breaths and tried to swallow the bile that was rising in his throat. _His bedside manner was _him_. He _is_ a good doctor. _

When Wilson opened his eyes again, he was staring down at the casket. House was inside, his eyes closed, and he looked so..unreal. He had an _almost_ smile on his face, the look he got when he just taken the perfect amount of Vicodin and he was high as a kite. Wilson reached out and put his hand on House's forehead gently, and House's eyelids flew open. Bright blue eyes rolled frantically, and they locked with Wilson's, who stared in shock and relief. _Not dead._

_He _is_ dead. This is _his _funeral._

"Wilson." House whispered, but his mouth didn't move. Wilson stared, completely horrified, as thread appeared out of nowhere, stitching his mouth shut slowly.

"No." Wilson said with a groan, and he tried to stop the thread from completely closing his mouth.

"Wake up."

_This is real life_ he thought, panicked, his nails digging into the stitches, trying to rip away the thread. Voices in his head and all around him started to distract him from his goal, and he closed his eyes, scratching House's lips blindly.

Wilson opened his eyes and raised his head. Cuddy and Foreman stood in front of his desk, staring at him with concerned and confused eyes.

"Are you okay?" Foreman asked, and Wilson sat upright slowly, his arms tingling from sleeping on them on his desk.

"I..yeah. I'm fine. I didn't mean to doze off," Wilson said apologetically, and closed his eyes for a moment, trying to gather himself. When he opened his eyes again, he was still sitting behind his desk in his office with Cuddy and Foreman. _Not a dream_ he thought, then startled himself by blurting out, "is House okay? What's happened?"

"House is asleep. He's responding well to treatment. He's fine." Cuddy glanced at Foreman briefly, then turned her attention back to Wilson. "Are _you_ okay? It's not like you at all to sleep at work."

"I'm sorry Cuddy," Wilson sighed and rubbed his eyes. "I don't know what's wrong with me."

"You've been under a lot of stress. It's understandable." Foreman raised his hand up and held a folder out to him. "The team and I need your help. You did well with the differential about House the other night, and there's got to be something I'm missing because I can't figure it out."

Wilson nodded, taking the folder from him and placed it on his desk. "I'll be in there in a bit. I have an appointment with a patient in ten minutes."

Foreman left the room with thanks, and left Cuddy alone with Wilson. He put his head in his hands and groaned into his palms in frustration.

"You are doing too much. Either drop House, or take time off work."

Wilson raised his head to make eye contact with Cuddy, and he shook his head. "I can't do that. I'm his doctor and friend, and I can't just drop him. He wouldn't do _any_ treatment if I wasn't the one to do it and be there. And I need to work, it helps me keep my mind off of him for now."

"You're sleeping in your office. You look like hell. If I catch you sleeping again, I'll have to write you up. Consider this a warning." Cuddy raised her eyebrows to him, challenging him to argue, and he nearly did before he realized she was deliberately pushing his buttons. _Not that she wouldn't write me up like she says she will, though._

"I'm really worried about House," Wilson said quietly, and when Cuddy sat down across from him, he took it as a cue to continue. "I've been having weird nightmares and dreams where he dies, or is close to death. I haven't had a nightmare in years."

"He's your best friend. It _is_ understandable to be stressed out right now. Maybe you _should_ take time off, at least a day or two to sleep. We'll watch him here," Cuddy said reassuringly, and Wilson shook his head. Bits of the dream he'd had floated through his memory of the nurse's watching Wilson blankly as he tried to save House's life. _They all would 'watch' him. The real question is: would they _help_ him?_

"I can't. I just need to not come in at three in the morning, that's all."

Cuddy pursed her lips for a moment before saying softly, "is House really okay?"

"I don't know. His test results say he is, and he's getting better. It was just really hard to know that he was dying and I couldn't figure out what it was that was killing him. It was one of the hardest things I've ever had to go through - seeing him suffer, intubating him and starting his heart back up." Wilson let out a shaky laugh and forced himself not to cry in front of her. _He's getting better. There's no reason to bring this up._

Cuddy smiled sadly. "I may not be as close to him as you are, but I do know what it feels like to have to save his life like that. I've had to do it before. I've sat by his bed, just like you, and prayed that he wouldn't be taken away from us. I know a little of how you feel, even if he and I aren't anything more than co-workers. You've done your job, both as a friend and as a doctor. There's nothing else left for you to do. It's time to take care of yourself, too."

"I know." Wilson frowned, remembering the nightmare from the night before, where Cuddy killed House. "Do you think, if it came down to it, you would be able to let him die?" When she gave him a confused look, he said, "like the other night. He was peeing blood, having seizures, his fever spiked to 106. He was dying. If we didn't figure it out when we did, would you just accept that there was nothing left to do?"

"I would have made him comfortable the best way I could, but I wouldn't let him purposely die without _trying_ to find out the source of his system failures. Why?" Cuddy asked, narrowing his eyes slightly, studying him with a curious look.

"His medical decisions were dropped on my shoulders. I just don't know what would have been right or wrong." Wilson added in his mind: _I had pretty much signed his Death Certificate though_.

"You would have made the right decision, even if it hurt one of you like hell." She watched him sympathetically, and Wilson grimaced slightly. "It will all be fine. He's strong and will get through it without anymore issues, I think."

"I hope so. My patient will be here any minute and I have to go to the restroom. I'll talk to you later Cuddy," Wilson said and stood up quickly. He left the office before Cuddy and didn't stop moving until he got into the restroom and locked himself in a stall.

_He's fine_ he told himself, sitting on the toilet to calm his nerves. _Stop freaking out. This is asinine._

After taking a few deep breaths, Wilson wiped tears off of his face that he hadn't noticed before, left the stall to wash his hands and face. He grabbed a few cheap paper towels and dried his face, keeping eye contact with himself in the mirror. His eyes were dark, and he hadn't eaten very well the last few days, and he was pale from the combination of the lack of sleep and food. _I look like House_.

Sighing, Wilson dropped the paper towels in the garbage and left the bathroom, mentally preparing himself for his appointment. He had a new terminal patient today.

* * *

Roll call! Where my readers at?!


	27. Chapter 27

I don't own anything but the plot. 3 my beta ShaiWatson, and my fantastic readers and reviewers :)

* * *

Three days passed with little incident. House slept most of the days away, not because of drugs, but out of pure boredom. Every few hours he'd get out of bed and walk farther from his room in the hallways, sometimes with Wilson, and sometimes with one of his menagerie. They made him wear paper masks.

Thirteen hardly came by to see him, which didn't surprise him much, but it still made him slightly angry. '_She's embarrassed that she didn't believe Wilson and walked out on the differential. She thinks it would have been her fault if you died because she wasn't there'_ That's what Foreman had said, and House had snorted in response. _'Relay a message to her. Tell her to shut the fuck up and stop whining_'. She still hadn't been by to see him, and House wondered if Foreman even told her his words.

House made his mom go home. She wouldn't listen to him when he kindly pushed her in that direction, and he ended up buying her a one way plane ticket home. _'Real nice. Guilt her into leaving so your money isn't wasted_' Wilson had said, scandalized. House just smiled and shrugged in response. He'd reassured his mom - and so had Wilson, repeatedly - that he would call her the moment he started to go downhill. And even if he didn't, she was going to call daily to check on him. It was just a relief to House that she was gone now.

Three excruciatingly boring days to tack onto the 3 days he'd already been in. _6 freaking days here _he thought as he pushed his IV pole with his left hand, ignoring the pain in his shoulder. _At least my shoulder is healing now_. _Never break a shoulder again_ he told himself firmly.

Today he'd gotten out of his room alone. The blinds had been mostly drawn, and he hid behind them and peeked out of the glass door every few seconds to watch the nurses and doctors passing through the hallway. When it was all clear, he took his opportunity and bolted, walking faster than he had in a week. Brief images of running, when his leg didn't hurt, or when it didn't have a problem at all, flashed through his mind as he moved fast down the hall. Quickly squashing the taunting memories, he disappeared down another hallway and slowed his pace.

Today, he was going to his office.

It wasn't much of a surprise when he pulled open his door and saw his kids with Wilson, but he widened his eyes and pretended it was anyway. Well, Wilson was more of a surprise than anyone else was.

"Oh!" He said, stopping in the doorway. He met each set of eyes with a "busted!" expression. "I didn't realize you guys would be here." He pushed the pole into the office and walked toward the white board in the connecting room. "You are doing a differential? Why didn't anyone tell me?"

"I asked for a consult, that's all," Foreman said, raising his eyebrows questioningly. "Why are you in here? You're going to get sick if you keep walking around, especially this far."

"Crap," House groaned, pretending to check his nonexistent pockets. "I forgot my mask."

Wilson capped the marker he was holding and handed it to Taub, then moved forward. "I'm going to be in your room in a few minutes to start you on your treatment. Go back to your room and take a shower or something."

"I wanted my iPod. I'll only be a minute." House glanced at the white board briefly, wishing he could help out, before turning around and making his way into his office. He missed work, and he was so close to just giving everything up; treatment sounded _so_ unappealing today.

After digging around on his desk, knocking papers and folders onto the floor bitterly - _there's no reason I should be upset_ - and gives up his "search" for his iPod. _The stupid thing is at home anyway._

Instead of going into the hallway and back to his room, House stepped out of his office and onto his balcony. It was chilly outside, moreso than normal because of his gown and bare head. It was still nice to be out than in, and he leaned his arms on the wall and stared at the scenary in thought.

_I can't wait to get out of here._

Closing his eyes, House breathed in deeply and let his mind wander. _Two weeks ago I was ready to commit suicide. Why didn't I?_

He knew he'd never have an answer for the question, except for maybe 'because Wilson wouldn't let me', though that wasn't _entirely _true. Wilson had given up on him, and would have accepted suicide four days ago, but House didn't blame him at all for it. House wouldn't have sat by Wilson's side nearly half as much as Wilson had sat by his the last few weeks. _Why not?_ The answer was a simple: _because I'm a coward._

The door from his office opened and closed behind him, and a moment later Wilson was leaning on the wall beside him. They were silent for a few brief minutes before Wilson said gently, "are you ready to go inside?"

"Just give me another minute," House answered, knowing it was stupid. _I've been on this medication already. It's only for two days. It's not a big deal._ Unfortunately, it _was_ a big deal; if this didn't work, he didn't have many options left. _Then I can start thinking seriously about suicide again_.

"It's too cold out here for you. Next time at least bring a jacket, or a hat," Wilson told him, trying to keep his voice light. House heard the worry, though, and he appreciated it as much as he hated it. He didn't even bother with a snarky remark; he wasn't in the mood for it.

"If my heart stops today, you're back in charge of my medical decisions until I'm fully conscious. If my heart stops more than twice, I don't want you to try a third time. I'm willing to give this a shot, but I'm not prepared to suffer again," House said firmly, and turned his head to meet Wilson's eyes. "I'm very serious here. I'm compromising with you. No more than twice."

Wilson nodded and put his left arm around House's shoulders tentatively in a brief embrace. He let go as quickly as he'd hugged him, and said, "I'll respect your wishes this time. You were right this whole time. You know what's good for you, not me."

House chuckled at that and straightened himself. He started walking back inside and said over his shoulder without stopping, "two weeks ago I would've commited suicide over the cancer diagnosis. You made some right decisions for me a few times, too."

After that, they walked in silence back to House's room. Nurses looked at House and Wilson with confused and abashed expressions; they hadn't noticed House's room empty, and now were afraid to get in trouble for letting him leave unattended. Apparently Wilson didn't notice or care, because he said nothing, just told House he would be back with his Cytarabine in a bit. House sat down on the recliner in his room, pulling the blanket from his bed onto his lower legs and waited.

_Here comes the fun part._

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

"I hate you."

Wilson grimaced but let the words go as he stayed planted on the hospital bed, his hands clasped limply in his lap. House's head was hanging over the pink bucket, and he heaved so hard that Wilson winced in sympathy. _That one probably ruptured blood vessels._

"Water."

A cup of water was in Wilson's hand a second later and he handed it to House carefully. House rinsed his mouth and spit the water in the bucket, then swallowed the rest of the water and thrust the cup back at Wilson without looking up at him. Wilson looked up at the heart monitor beside the bed and noted the increase in House's heart rate, but knew it was from the vomiting more than the chemo drug. He refilled the cup and held onto it, waiting while House emptied his stomach again.

"My chest hurts," House managed to say before spitting into the bucket, and Wilson looked away when he started dry heaving. He couldn't watch anyone dry heave; he knew from his own life experiences that dry heaving hurt worse than anything.

"Your heart and O2 are good. You've got a half an hour of treatment left." Wilson said the words, trying to be encouraging, but he knew they were the last words that would help in this kind of situation. _I have to say something_.

House raised his head after a few minutes and fixed the oxygen tubes running under his nose and hooking over his ears. His left arm was back in a sling; Wilson worried that he would somehow mess his shoulder up more during treatment than any other time. The last thing House needed was to have his shoulder surgically repaired because he couldn't let it heal properly.

Their eyes met, and Wilson's chest grew tight when he saw tears in House's eyes from throwing up so violently. House gripped the bucket and tried to lift it, and Wilson reached forward to take it while handing him the cup in exchange. He waited until he spit water into the bucket, then went into the bathroom to rinse it out. He turned on the faucet and filled the bucket with water, then dumped the contents into the toilet.

"Remember what I said about reviving me. Don't forget it," House said from the recliner, and Wilson turned off the faucet, pouring the last of the liquid in the bucket into the toilet and flushing.

"I'm not going to forget," Wilson assured him and looked at the computer screen again. His heart rate was lower again. "Your heart is doing fine." He handed the bucket back to House and sat down on the bed again, unsure of what to do now. He had to stay, just in case House's body gave up, but he should have brought paperwork at least. _I was too worried about things going wrong_.

House closed his eyes and took deep breaths as Wilson glanced around the room for something to do or say and came up with nothing.

"You should bring video games tomorrow so you aren't so _obviously_ bored," House said, breaking the silence. He didn't open his eyes, and Wilson frowned; House knew him too well if he could figure out what he was thinking and feeling without even looking at him.

"I'm not that bored. I just expected there would be some huge medical emergency. I was wrong, thankfully." Wilson scratched his head and looked at the vitals on the screen, keeping an eye on the rising heart rate. _It's not rising that quickly. _

"Shut off the lights. It's killing my head," House snapped, raising his hand to massage his right temple. Wilson got up and flipped the switch, dimming the room, and moved to the window to close up the blinds. "I want my Vicodin now." The words were harshly spoken, and Wilson was surprised; House hadn't been outright rude in some time, and it was concerning.

"Do you have another migraine?" He asked, keeping his voice low. House only nodded in response, and Wilson bit his lip in thought. "I can give you a little ibuprofen now and Vicodin after treatment. I'm not about to risk heart failure over a headache."

House groaned and leaned over the bucket and threw up bile, and Wilson had to close his eyes for a brief moment. _It sounds so painful_. Wilson went to the doorway while House retched and started swearing to himself, and stuck his head in the hallway.

"Can I get some towels and ibuprofen?" He asked a nearby nurse, and barely waited for a yes before shutting the door and moving back toward House. He was breathing rapidly and struggling with the tape on his arm that held his IV down. "What do you think you're doing?" Wilson asked roughly, crossing the room quickly and smoothing the tape back onto House's hand.

"No more," was his answer, and Wilson's stomach knotted at the sound of defeat in House's voice. "I can't go another twenty minutes. No more."

"You'll still be sick whether you finish now or in twenty minutes. Leave it on. I've got a nurse on an errand and you'll be feeling better soon." Wilson waited for an argument, and it didn't come; House was swaying slowly in the chair, his eyes closed. "What's wrong?"

"Mask," House said, and Wilson glanced up at the screen and straightened completely. House's O2 was starting to drop, and his heartrate was picking up.

Within seconds, Wilson had the oxygen mask hooked up to tubing and was placing the elastic over House's head to keep the mask in place. He helped House push the back of the recliner until he was lying back, and turned the oxygen up higher. Wilson waited, holding his breath, as House's O2 started to rise and his heart started to slow. _Damn him. I bet he did that on purpose._

The nurse came in and Wilson made her dampen a towel while he injected the ibuprofen into the tubing. House was massaging his forehead and moaning softly, and nearly ripped the nurse's hand off as he took the towel from her. He put it over his eyes and laid back again, then fell silent.

"Thanks," Wilson said to the nurse as she left the room. He glanced at the screen again, afraid that it wouldn't warn him if something was wrong, and sat back down on House's bed in relief. He laid on his back and stared at the ceiling, listening to the soft beeps from the monitors and the hum of the oxygen tank.

Minutes passed in silence, and when House started moving again, Wilson looked over. He was sitting up, the towel off of his eyes, and he blinked slowly around the dark room.

"Vicodin when I'm done, right?" He asked, looking up at the IV bag with his medication. Only five or so minutes left.

"Yeah. Is your head still hurting?" Wilson sat up and started to move forward when House raised his hand to wave him away.

"It's fine. I want to join in on the next differential," House said, raising his eyes to Wilson's and giving him a hard stare. "I'm going out of my mind, and if I have to be here for _another_ week, I need to do something. I don't care if differentials are held in here, I just need interaction."

The subject threw Wilson mentally off balance; he hadn't expected House to bring it up, and didn't know that House knew Wilson was leading the differentials. _Maybe he doesn't know, but he _did_ see me in there_.

"I'll see what I can do. It depends on how well you do the next few days," Wilson moved off of the bed and to the IV pole. He started removing the medication bag. "You're done for today. Did you want a shower?"

House nodded and a small smile played on his lips. "Can you have Cuddy come in here and help me?"

Wilson suddenly remembered the night of the high fever and hallucination House had, and how he'd had to clean House with Cuddy. _Don't tell him about it. He'll either get angry out of embarrassment, or start being more crude._

"I'll send in Jack."

House groaned. "Please don't. I'm fine by myself, thanks."

"He'll be more than happy to help you. I hear he thinks you're cute for an old man." Wilson smirked and stepped away just as House reached for his cane.

"You can't deny his words. Wait til my hair grows back," House said, raising his eyebrows with a grin. "I'm really not that old, though."

"Of course you aren't." Wilson agreed with just a hint of sarcasm in his voice. He dropped the IV tubes and plastic bag in the garbage by the door. "I'll send someone in to help you with the monitors and to change your fluids. I need to get to work for a few hours, but page me if you need anything."

Wilson stopped at the nurse's station and found the male nurse, Jack. The other nurses had disappeared, and Wilson wasn't _planning_ on sending the gay male nurse in, but he was the only one around. Wilson watched the nurse walk into House's room and flip on the light, and he smiled when House said loudly, "Wilson told me he was going to call Cuddy!" _Liar_ he thought, amused, and started toward his office. _House will want his Vicodin soon_. He stopped briefly at House's office to tell Thirteen to get House pain medication, then made his way down the hall to his own office.

* * *

We're closing in on this journey. I'd love to post daily until this is complete for you guys. . . :) Roll call!


	28. Chapter 28

I don't own anything but the plot. 3 to my beta, ShaiWatson, and to my fabulous readers.

* * *

House was in the shower, sitting in the handicap shower seat while the hot water beat down on his legs and chest. Ten minutes had passed from when Wilson had left him alone, and his leg was starting to hurt to the point where he'd need morphine soon if he didn't get some kind of relief. He'd talked the male nurse out of coming into the bathroom with him, and prayed that he was out of his room by the time he got done.

He was massaging his leg when someone knocked on the bathroom door, and House stuck his head out of the curtain and called, "what?"

Thirteen pushed the door open and stepped inside, letting cool air in the steamy bathroom. House glanced at the syringe in her hands and bit back a smile.

"Just inject it directly into the IV," he said casually, and pulled the curtain shut. A moment later, the curtain was pulled open again, and he covered himself quickly. "Look, I know you've dreamt of seeing my junk, but give me a few weeks to recover before we rush into this."

"Oh, you noticed my burning desire?" She asked, and he was slightly impressed at the complete control she had on her face as she said it. _Typical of her. _

"Either come in the shower with me or close the curtain and get out." House raised his eyebrows and tried to be nonchalant, but it was hard to be when he was naked and cold.

"I'm just here to check on you and to tell you that I want to give you a physical when you get out. I'll wait for you out there," Thirteen said, waving the syringe of Vicodin slowly. "I'll give this to you when you're back in bed. It's a strong dose."

"Have I ever told you that you're the best doctor in my crew?" He asked, looking up from the syringe to her eyes. "I might have to have a dance off for Taub and Kutner for second place, but you've always been first in my heart."

Thirteen rolled her eyes and pocketed the drugs, then left the bathroom, leaving the door slightly ajar. House groaned and forced himself to a standing position to rinse his body off. He jumped out of the shower as quickly as he could, and for the first time since he'd broken his shoulder over a week ago, he got dressed in less than a minute, IV, sling and all.

The doctor was waiting beside his bed in the recliner, rolling the Vicodin syringe between her hands in thought. She looked up at him when he left the bathroom, and she stood up stiffly. _She's getting worse, isn't she?_ The thought made him a little sad, though he had no reason to say aloud what he was thinking, or embarrass her when she just saw him naked.

She held the IV pole still while House climbed into his bed slowly, trying to be careful not to agitate his muscles more. Chemo had been _rough_ today - he had noticed he'd burst a few vessels under his eyes - and his body was aching already. _Just one more day_ he told himself, repeating it in his mind as a mantra. _Don't give up now. The end is definitely in sight._ Regardless of the test results in a few days, the end of chemo really was in sight now, and now was the time to prove to everyone that he wasn't a coward.

"What did you say?" House asked, snapping out of his thoughts and looking up at Thirteen. Her hands froze with the syringe half twisted into the line.

"I asked if you have been confused or dizzy today. Did you not hear me?" She started to lower the syringe from the IV, and House's mind screamed at him to not let her put the Vicodin away before she gave it to him.

"I was thinking of your hot bod. Whenever I'm in a lot of pain, I focus on the image of you, and -"

"You _swear_ that you were fully aware and conscious?" Thirteen narrowed her eyes suspiciously, and House knew she was trying to find his lie. _Everybody lies._

"Yes, mom. I was thinking about my chemo today. I tune everyone out, you should know that by now. Now, _please_ give me those drugs," he said, his voice tight with pain. The pain in his leg was starting to spread. "I have about five minutes left before that amount of Vicodin won't help me at all."

Thirteen placed the syringe in her pocket and started sticking the heart and O2 monitors onto House's body. House grit his teeth together and waited, rubbing his leg in slow circles. It only took her a few seconds, but it felt a lot longer, and he was starting to get nauseous by the time the syringe was screwed onto the IV and slowly emptying into the tube.

He closed his eyes and sunk all the way into his pillows while Thirteen disposed of the empty syringe and started changing the saline bag. She was talking to him again, and he told her to shut it until his pain was gone. She listened and the silence was beautiful.

"Are you feeling better?" She asked after a few minutes, and House forced an eye open to stare at her in response. She nodded, as if it were answer enough, then said, "your heart rate is fine, your O2 is good, so the Vicodin I gave you doesn't seem to be causing any problems." She leaned forward and raised his eyelids, testing his pupils with her flashlight. After pocketing the flashlight, she delicately placed her wrist on his forehead and nodded to herself.

"Satisfied?" He asked, closing his eyes as the Vicodin started coursing through his body. It slowly started taking away his pain.

Thirteen ignored him and picked up his chart and started writing, glancing at the computer screen at times. After a minute, she said, "get some rest before your surgery. Is there anything you need?"

"No." House shook his head slowly, his head feeling fuzzy. "Unless you want to give me a massage?"

"Taub will be here in a couple of hours to get you ready. Sleep."

House closed his eyes and thought _I'm not going to fall asleep_. He passed out before she left the room.

Several hours later he startled awake with a small gasp. Pain was shooting out from his leg, and for a brief second in his drug induced grogginess, he thought he was in the hospital recovering from the infarction. "Stacy?" he croaked, blinking rapidly against the light. _What's going on? _

"House?" The words were tentative, and House turned his head quickly, reality rushing back to him. Taub stood beside the bed, holding his chart, with a pen poised over the paper. He was staring at House with a confused expression, and when House realized what he had said, he mentally kicked himself. _She's been gone for so long, there's no reason to bring her up now. _"Are you okay?"

Nausea rolled over him and he closed his eyes. A moment later, Taub had his fingers on House's wrist and House cracked his eye open to see what he was doing.

"Do you hurt? Are you feeling sick?" Taub asked, taking his finger's away and writing on the clipboard again. He glanced up a few times in concern, but wisely kept his mouth shut.

"I'm ready to run a marathon," House answered, his hand finding his thigh and massaged it with a small groan.

Taub sighed and adjusted the flow rate on House's IV as he said, "we're going to get you prepped for the shunt placement for your dialysis in a few minutes. There will be pain killers when you wake up."

"Chase is doing the surgery, right?" House asked, trying to focus his attention on what he was about to go do, rather than on the pain. _Minor surgery to prepare for dialysis. I've recovered enough to have general anesthesia_. "Maybe we should wait until after chemo."

"We've put this off long enough. Your kidneys aren't going to hold out much longer. It's today, House. It's a minor surgery. It'll be in your left arm so you still have use of your right one. Tomorrow we'll do four hours of dialysis, and you'll be done with chemo, and you'll have a couple of more dialysis treatments and you'll be back to work in a month." Taub awkwardly patted House on the shoulder and hooked the patient chart on the bed. "I'll go see when the OR is ready."

House watched Taub leave before he forced himself upright to go to the bathroom. His head felt like it was stuffed with cotton, and he struggled to form a clear thought. The IV pole was cold when he wrapped his fingers around it, and he leaned on it heavily, forgetting his cane beside the bed.

The lights in the bathroom made his head throb slightly, and he spent a few minutes splashing water onto his face and taking calming breaths, trying to ease his mind and pulse. _It's an easy procedure_. It didn't change the fact that he was nervous.

By the time he was relieved and as calm as he could manage, Wilson was in the room waiting beside the bed with a wheelchair. He looked up at House and gave him a warm smile, encouraging him silently to keep moving forward. House grimaced with each step, dreading the upcoming procedure; it didn't even count as a surgery in his mind. But there were still risks involved, mainly with the mix of chemo, his recent heart problems, and generally not being healthy.

The wheelchair was uncomfortable, and he thought about pushing himself down the hall, but gave up on the idea when he moved his left arm too quickly and his shoulder sent jolts of pain down his back and arm. Wilson wisely kept quiet and waited until House was situated and holding on the IV pole before pushing him forward.

It wasn't until they were in the confines of the elevator when Wilson started speaking. "Chase is scrubbing in right now. I'm going to be in there with Foreman to assist."

"I thought I sent my mom home?" House asked sarcastically, but was thankful that Wilson would be there. _I wouldn't be this good to him. Why is he trying so hard?_

"I know it's just a minor surgery and three doctors is overkill, but you matter to us all and if anything happens. . well, you only want me to start your heart back up twice, right?" The question made House's pulse quicken; the casualty of Wilson's voice when he asked it made him look up to make sure Wilson was Wilson still.

"You just go right in for the kill, don't you?" House scratched his forehead nervously as the doors opened and they started toward the OR. "Intubate me during surgery so I can have a leg up on death in case the reaper tries to take me on the table."

Wilson agrees quietly as they approach the double doors. He stopped in front of the nurse who was waiting to escort House into the room and moved around the chair so House could see him.

"This is going to be easy, House. We'll inject the general straight into your IV and give you some oxygen until you're out, then I'll intubate you. I'll see you when you wake up."

House nodded and stood up from the chair with the help of Wilson and the nurse, and he limped into the OR without another word to Wilson. _Don't kill me now, guys._

----------*----------

Once House was under anesthesia, Wilson informed everyone that he would be in charge of House's vitals. All he had to do was watch with one of the nurses, and inform Chase if anything out of the ordinary started happening. Foreman had a crash cart ready beside him, prepared to use it in a moment's notice.

"We only bring him back twice if his heart fails," Wilson said firmly, keeping eye contact with each, making sure the two doctors understood the severity of what he was saying. "I'm his proxy right now. You listen to me, no matter how much you don't want to let him go."

"He wouldn't let anyone die without trying, even if they had a DNR," Chase argued, the mask over his mouth moving with each steadying breath he took to try and control his emotions.

Wilson nodded his agreement, but said, "I'm not House, and I can't go against any of my patient's wishes."

"Guess you shouldn't screw up then," Foreman told Chase quietly, and Chase closed his eyes for a brief moment to gather himself. Wilson felt bad for the guy; it was an easy procedure, but it was still a very important surgery.

The minutes passed as Chase worked expertly, cutting open House's arm - he briefly discussed surgically placing House's shoulder since they were already there, but Wilson decided against it - and placed the shunt above House's wrist with no problem. Wilson glanced from the cut in House's arm to his vitals, relieved every time he saw the strong pulse and excellent O2.

It wasn't until halfway through the surgery, when Chase clamped the vein to connect it to the artery beside it, that Wilson thought House might be in trouble. His blood pressure started to drop, and the O2 went down a point before it stabilized again. Chase was staring at the screen hard, holding his breath with Wilson before he continued connecting the vessels. Wilson realized a moment later that he was gripping House's right hand, and he let go quickly. House's blood pressure evened out again, and a relieved sigh came from everyone in the room.

Before Wilson knew it, Chase was stitching up the arm and finishing his work. Foreman hesitated only a moment before moving the crash cart to one end of the OR, keeping it nearby in case House had a reaction to the pain medication the nurse was administering.

"Leave the tube in. He'll still be under general for a little while longer and it won't hurt him to be intubated," Wilson said to the two doctors, and they nodded in agreement. Chase was wrapping gauze around House's arm carefully. When he raised his eyes up after he finished, Wilson bowed his head slightly and said, "thanks, Chase. You did an excellent job."

Chase answered with a brief, "it was nothing," and left the room. Wilson momentarily wondered why Chase was being so short with him, but he blew it off and took off his mask and gloves. Foreman followed suit, and a minute later they were lifting House from the operating table onto a stretcher and they pushed House out of the OR toward his room.

Once House was settled into his own bed, he was coming around. Wilson gently pulled the tube from his throat, and House gagged twice before it was completely out. His eyes were glazed and his lids were heavy from the morphine they'd given him. He smiled weakly at Wilson, blinking slowly, and Wilson knew it was one of the few times House would never feel pain. It made his chest hurt for his friend.

"The surgery went exceptionally well," Wilson said softly, sitting in the vacant chair beside the bed. House turned his head and struggled to keep his eyes open and give his full attention. "You were stable the entire time. There weren't any problems."

"Sucks that I had to do it at all," House mumbled, taking a deep breath and exhaling slowly. "D'you want to know something funny?" Wilson raised his eyebrows curiously; the best part of general anesthesia - for the most part, anyway - was when patients first come around from it. Sometimes funny stories are told. "That hallucination I had was the scariest shit I've ever seen."

Wilson drew his eyebrows together in confusion. "Why are you telling me that, and _why_ is it funny?" _What did he hallucinate that made him scared?_

House shrugged, his head dropping to the side for a second before he raised it back up. He had a lazy smile on his face, and Wilson wondered if they'd given him too much morphine.

"Cuddy's eyes were bleeding, and you had no eyes at all. Black chunky stew came out of your mouths," House said, and he chuckled to himself. Wilson almost reached for the phone to call the OR nurse and find out what they'd given him for sure, but House started talking again and he waited. "Just thought you would want to know. It's not so scary when I say it out loud." His eyes closed and he rubbed his leg.

"Does your leg hurt?"

House's hand stopped moving and he laughed. "Not right now. I forgot it didn't hurt."

Wilson smiled at that, though he wasn't quite sure why. It was sad that House's first instinct was to ease the pain in his leg, even when he couldn't feel it.

"Get some sleep now. I'll be back with some dinner in a few hours." Wilson stood up from the chair; he had patients to see to still. He had an hour left of his shift, and Cuddy wanted him to spend a little time in the Clinic.

"Bring movies. Porn preferrably," House said, his words slurring a bit.

Wilson left the room and stopped at the nurse's desk to tell them to make sure to keep an eye on House and to page him if anything happens. He picked up House's OR chart and double checked the morphine dosage they'd given him, and put the file back behind the counter.

"I'll be around," he told the nurses and walked off to go back to work. _Just one more day of treatment, and a few days of dialysis and you're clear, House._ His pulse raced a little in excitement at the prospect of House being cured and healthy. Or at least as healthy as he'd been before.


	29. Chapter 29

I don't own anything but the plot. 3 to my great beta and my fantastic readers :)

* * *

House stared warily at the bags Wilson carried into his room the next day. It was the final day of chemo, and he was ready to be done with it and move on from this part of his existence. _Things can still go wrong. What if my heart stops again?_

The same thoughts over and over for days was starting to grate on his nerves. He was never one for outright self pity, though those on the outside tend to think what they see is him radiating pity. There comes a point, though, when one realizes that it no longer matters if people see you in pain or suffering. They've all seen him naked at one point or another now, he's thrown up so much and rolled around in his own bodily fluids that he didn't care if he acted human or like his normal, assholish self around them anymore.

Wilson picks up on House's mood immediately, and sets the medication and saline bags on the nearby table and sits on the matress of the bed across from the recliner. House sees the worry in his eyes and knows that he's internally panicking, wondering if House has changed his mind again.

"Everything okay?" Wilson asked cautiously, physically bracing himself for the bombshell he's obviously waiting for.

"I'm just glad it's the last day," House answers truthfully; he's not in the mood for banter. It's too damn early for one thing, and House is just too damn _exhausted_ to keep up his facade. His body ached everywhere, and even though he'd slept 14 hours the night before - waking only to eat a small amount of the meal Wilson had brought in for dinner - he was ready to go back to sleep.

"I'm glad it's the last day, too," Wilson said carefully, studying House slowly. "Usually people smile when they're happy about things."

House forced a smile and Wilson shook his head, obviously annoyed. That grated on House's nerves, too.

"I'm too tired to deal with your. . whatever you're doing. Just hook me up and leave me alone." House raised his hand as he yawned and rested his elbow on the arm of the recliner. He put his forehead in his hand and closed his eyes, then wondered if he'd be able to get a nap in before the nausea hit him.

"I brought another movie. Or we can watch the one we started when you fell asleep last night," Wilson offered, hooking a bag on the IV pole. House grimaced; Wilson had found a Playstation in Peds that wasn't in use and had the movie Caddyshack with him the night before. Wilson had given him a small boost of morphine as they ate - House almost threw up his dinner because of the pain he was in - and thanks to the drugs House had been out cold minutes after the movie started.

"Put it on if you want. I have a feeling I'll be too distracted to watch." House looked up briefly as the Cytarabine was hooked up to the IV already in his hand, and he felt immense relief. _One more hour and it's done_.

"What time do you have dialysis?" Wilson asked, adjusting the flow rate of the IV as he spoke. House pushed the recliner so he was resting with his feet up and lying back. His body suddenly relaxed, thanks to the new position, and he was ready to go back to sleep again.

"I don't know. One." House looked up at the clock and saw it was 8 AM. He could get a few hours of sleep in after treatment. "Time to be quiet, doctor."

House closed his eyes and drifted into a lucid sleep, aware of Wilson's presence and the beeping from the computer as his heart beat. It was calming, listening to Wilson chuckle at the movie, flipping through paperwork. House managed to breathe through his nausea and focus on the sounds of the room while he lightly dozed for almost 40 minutes.

Throwing up this morning was the worst he'd ever experienced.

"It's like I'm pregnant," House groaned into the bucket, and wasn't surprised in the least when he saw blood in his vomit. "What are you doing?" He asked Wilson, who was messing with the IV behind him. Just as Wilson answered, House threw up again, and was ashamed when he cried out in pain. He didn't hear the answer. Wilson's hands on his neck as he gently massaged House's tired muscles would have sent him into a fit if he didn't feel so miserable..

"I gave you promethazine for your nausea," Wilson said softly, kneading the back of House's neck slowly. A few silent moments went by while House finished emptying his stomach - it was mostly fluids; he hadn't eaten very much in days - before Wilson removed the dirty bucket from House's lap.

He came back a moment later, the bucket clean and a cool towel for House's neck or face or wherever he wanted to put it, he assumed. He put it on his neck, and hung his head over the bucket just in case.

"Have you decided if you want the bone marrow results before or after the vacation?" Wilson asked, and House vaguely remembered telling him the night before in his drug induced insanity that he didn't want to know if he was still sick until he came back from Vegas. _"Why be miserable during the vacation if I'm still dying?"_ he'd said.

"Now's _really_ not the time to discuss this," House snapped and dry heaved over the bucket. The promethazine Wilson had given him was starting to kick in, and his eyes began feeling heavier. "How much did you give me?"

"25 milligrams."

House smirked, even though he still felt like crap, and said, "you know promethazine potentiates morphine, right?" He was definitely starting to feel better.

"Wow. You learned a lot more than I did in med school!" Wilson's tone made House smile again and his eyes drifted closed. What felt like seconds later, he opened them and looked up at Wilson, who was throwing away empty IV bags.

"Am I done?" He asked, his words slightly slurred. He'd only been given the drug 15 minutes ago; he felt higher than he had the day before, if that was _at all_ possible.

"Yes you are. Congratulations," Wilson said with a smile, eyeing House with a knowing expression. _He knows I'm high. Ha. He purposely over-drugged me._

"I need water." House's mouth was beginning to dry; an unpleasant side effect. The water Wilson gave him wasn't cold, but it helped more than he thought it would. His eyes were still heavy, and he struggled to sit upright and move to his bed. _I need to stop being so lazy_. But his bones ached from exhaustion, and he just wanted to sleep until he had to leave the hospital in a week.

"Here," Wilson said, putting House's good arm around his shoulder and he helped him stumble to his bed, dragging the IV pole with them. House collapsed onto the bed and _almost_ passed out the moment his head hit the pillow, except Wilson started talking again. "Have you talked to your mom since she got home?"

"Once," House mumbled, pulling his blanket up to his shoulders with a yawn. "Bye Wilson."

"Cuddy and Cameron are coming by a little later, so you know."

"Bye Wilson."

"Did you want to help us with a differential during dialysis?"

"_Bye Wilson_," House said, sleep dragging him under before he heard what Wilson said after.

----------*----------

"Good thing we're starting dialysis today."

House forced his eyes open to look at who was speaking. Cuddy was standing beside his bed, talking with Taub and Kutner; nobody noticed he was awake yet. _Just go back to sleep_ he told himself, but when he closed his eyes, sleep wouldn't pull at him again.

A cool hand was on his forehead a moment later and he sighed. He knew what that meant.

"House? You awake?" Cuddy asked quietly, and he nodded once, too tired and enjoying her touch too much to speak or reopen his eyes. "Your fever is back. We're going to move you to a clean room before we start dialysis."

"I don't need a clean room," House said, forcing his eyes to open and focus up at her. She removed her hand, and House realized he had a beanie on his head. _Who put that on? _"I'm fine here. If all kinds of different people stopped barging in here I wouldn't be at risk for infections."

"It's just temporary House. The fever could be the TTP, or from the medications, or you're coming down with something. Most likely you've caught something, since you're sleeping excessively, too," Kutner said, glancing at the chart in his hands as he spoke. "You've slept 19 of the last 24 hours."

"You're lying," House raised his eyebrows and sat up. The room spun around him slightly, the last remnants of his morphine and promethazine mixture wearing off. "Keep me in here. Just have Wilson, a nurse and one other person come and go."

"House.." Cuddy said, her voice calm as if she were talking to a child.

"_Cuddy_," he said back, and met her eyes defiantly. For a few long moments they stared before Cuddy gave in and nodded.

"Fine. But if your fever spikes or doesn't go away by tomorrow, we're moving you. I'll have your _proxy_ make that decision," she told him, raising her eyebrows in a challenge.

House studied her before agreeing. "Fine. But _you_ come into my clean room naked."

"Give him something to lower his fever, and after dialysis start him on antibiotics," Cuddy told Kutner and Taub, her voice firm. "I'm going to find Wilson."

Kutner followed Cuddy out of the room to get all of the drugs and equipment he'd need, leaving Taub alone with House. House watched him write in his file while his mind raced, trying to figure out what was causing another fever. _It won't end, will it?_ He imagined what he must look like, sitting in the bed, at least 15 pounds lighter than he was three weeks ago, missing hair and just looking sick. It was hard for him to come to terms with the image his mind made up.

Taub said nothing to him, and House didn't care for conversation. Instead, he flipped on his TV, forcing himself to stay awake. He needed to walk around to stay awake, but he was too weak to get up. _Maybe Wilson will help me later_. House hated the thought.

It was a few minutes before Wilson came into the room, helping Kutner drag the dialysis equipment into the room. Taub excused himself and left.

House watched Wilson and Kutner pull on gloves and Kutner handed two packages of needles to Wilson.

"Acetametaphine," Kutner said, holding a syringe up for House to see. "After dialysis, we'll give you something for your pain and antibiotics."

"My leg hurts _now_." House narrowed his eyes at Kutner, hoping his evil look would convince the doctor to help him out. It didn't. His leg pain wasn't unbearable, but he knew in three hours it would be bad.

"You're just going to have to deal with it for now. You've gone a week without Vicodin," Wilson told him, pulling open the packaging for the first needle. He grabbed House's left hand and turned it so the wrist was exposed.

"A week when only my leg hurt. My entire body hurts now."

"Three hours is nothing," Wilson said sternly, and stuck the needle into House's vein slowly. He hooked a tube up to it and opened the second needle.

"Three hours is a _long_ time when you have nothing to do but sit in pain."

Wilson raised his eyes to House's for a moment in exasperation. "Just shut it. You're not five, and you can certainly handle the pain. We'll watch a movie."

"Not Caddyshack," House told him as the second needle poked into his vein. He stared down at the tubes running from his left wrist, and looked at the tubes coming off of the top of his right hand. "I look bad, don't I?" He asked, imagining what he looked like _now_, with IV needles sticking out everywhere and being connected to the dialysis machine, heart and O2 monitor.

Wilson stopped moving - he'd been hooking the tubes up to the dialysis machine - and he turned his head to meet House's questioning eyes. His smile was gentle.

"No, you look good. I've seen you look a lot worse."

House nodded, accepting the answer but not really believing it, and he turned his attention to Kutner. The doctor was just about done administering the acetametaphine.

"I'm going to put your thermometer back on," Kutner said, moving across the room to dispose of the syringe. "_Then_ you'll look bad." Kutner left the room without another word.

As if he just remembered, Wilson pulled off his gloves and put the back of his hand to House's forehead and sighed softly. He flipped on the dialysis machine and watched blood move out of House's body and through the tube. He put his hand in his pocket and looked down at House, his face blank.

"It's not a high fever, which is good. No more walking around these hallowed halls. If you need to walk, we'll pace in here or something."

House grunted and looked down at his left arm, watching the dialysis process nervously. It's one thing to be a doctor and see this all the time with patients, but it's another thing entirely to _be_ the patient receiving it. He closed his eyes as he waited for Wilson to dig through a duffel bag and find a suitable movie to put in, but he had a feeling he'd fall asleep anyway.

"Star Wars?" Wilson asked, and House glanced at him indignantly.

"I can't believe you brought that here. I hate those movies," House said flatly, shutting his eyes again. "Find something else."

"Jurassic Park?"

"Which one?"

"Two."

"Abomination," House said with a sigh. "Do you have any _decent_ movies? Actually, don't tell me, just put something in because I'm not going to watch it anyway."

Wilson was quiet for a moment, and House saw a flash from behind his eyelids. His eyes snapped open and he looked at the doorway, narrowing his eyes angrily at the camera in Cameron's hand. She smiled brightly at him, unashamed of what she'd just done; plus, she knew he wouldn't be able to get up. _She's damn sneaky_.

"I figured it was a good day to take a picture of you. End of chemo and all," she explained, turning off the camera and putting it into her pocket. "Plus, it looked like you were asleep. Sleeping pictures are the cutest."

"How many other pictures have you gotten of me? I haven't seen you in days, and I certainly haven't seen you take pictures when I'm awake."

Cameron smirked and stepped further into the room, coming up beside the bed to touch his hand momentarily. "I've taken a few pictures. The day before yesterday, I saw you and Wilson walking together and I managed to get a good picture of the two of you. I actually got a picture of your surgery yesterday, too." She had the grace to look slightly embarrassed, then took a step back before House could raise his hand to try and grab the camera from her pocket. "The pictures are little reminders that you're human like everyone else, and when you freak out on a patient you can remember that you've been a patient, too."

"Do you really think I won't be able to destroy that camera?" House asked, raising his eyebrows mockingly. "I look like _hell_ and you're taking pictures of me? _Nobody_ takes pictures of me in the first place, but you decide to do it when I'm dying? Nice."

"You're not dying," she said, growing very serious. Her eyes swam with sadness, and House almost snapped at the sudden change. She continued talking, smoothing over her abrupt change in behavior by saying, "don't worry, I'll get a picture of you before you get out of here, and on your first day back so we can admire the journey you have been on."

"Cut it out," Wilson finally said from the TV, and House was glad for it. Cameron _always_ irritated him, but he definitely wasn't in the mood for it today. "He's not feeling very well, and we're going to shut down this room to anyone but me and Foreman from now on."

"Yes. Thanks for visiting," House added, meeting her eyes briefly before turning his attention to the TV; a movie was starting.

Cameron sighed quietly to herself and said, "I'll see you in a few days then. Call if you need anything," and she was gone.

The movie started - Blazing Saddles, surprisingly - and Wilson settled down beside the dialysis machine in the recliner. "She's only trying to cheer you up."

"She's _annoying_. Taking pictures of me!" House scoffed, shaking his head. "Who in the hell takes pictures of someone in dialysis? She's always been one of those people who thrives on neediness. Now she'll probably print out that picture of me at my worst and she'll carry it into the bathroom to -"

"_House_," Wilson said firmly, cutting him off before he could add the last bit. "You don't have to take the pictures if you don't want. I'm going to get a copy though. You _do_ look cute when you sleep."

"Homo," House muttered, crossing his arms awkwardly on his chest as he started to yawn. The tubes in his arms were making it hard to get a comfortable cross going, but he managed. He stared at the TV for a while, half-listening to the lines on the screen. He was getting tired again, and felt a little nauseous.

"You can sleep you know." Wilson's voice startled House and he looked up, confused. "You look like you're struggling to stay awake. Go to sleep if you want."

"No," House shook his head as he said it, and tried to sit up to stay awake. Wilson put his hand on his chest, stopping him.

"You're still sick and weak. Just relax. If you need anything, I'll do it for you. Let's not over-do it anymore, okay?"

House studied Wilson's eyes for a moment, noting the concern and all but pleading in his gaze. _It's been a long few weeks for him_. _Hell, for me, too_. "Fine," House conceded and sank back into the pillows, silently grateful; he _did_ want to rest more. "Just don't touch me anymore. The last thing we need is for Cameron to drop from the ceiling to take a picture of you caressing my pecks."

Wilson cracked a smile and House's lips twitched in response.

House waited a few heartbeats before saying, "don't test my bone marrow until my dialysis is done. I need to focus on one thing at a time. We'll look at the results before we go to Vegas."

Wilson nodded, not as surprised by the decision as House had thought he'd be. _He knows me better than I give him credit for_.

They both turned back to the TV and, as expected, House drifted off to sleep a few minutes later.

----------**----------

Wilson did his best to soothe House, who was groaning and clutching the sheets on his bed in pain. He had a bag of ice pressed to House's thigh and was racking his brain for a topic to talk about, to get House's mind off of his pain.

"Just give me some damn Vicodin, Wilson," House spat out, then clenched his jaw and tightened his grip on the fabric in his hands.

"It will just be filtered out of your blood. You have to wait. I know you're in pain, but you don't have much more time left," Wilson said gently, removing the ice and putting his hands on House's thigh carefully. He started to massage it, but House hit his hands.

"Don't touch me," he snapped and raised his hands to his eyes, gasping past the pain in his shoulder to rub his eyes. "Get out. You're not helping me."

Sweat covered House's forehead - he'd disposed of the beanie a while ago - and Wilson was happy to see that he no longer had the fever. It'd gone away with the acetaminophen that Kutner had given earlier. The sweat was from the pain House was in. Wilson was proud of him, even though he'd never voice it aloud. House had gone over 10 hours without pain medication at this point, mainly because nobody would waste the drugs when it would be filtered through dialysis anyway. Still, House was a trooper.

"I'm not going anywhere," Wilson said, his voice firm, holding House's eyes with his own. "You only have a few minutes left."

House closed his eyes tightly, and Wilson pursed his lips, wishing there was _something_ he could do. Anyone else, he would've held their hand or done something to be comforting, but with House there wasn't much to do. Suffering in silence (or near silence) was more appealing to House than having someone soothe his pain away. Maybe if Cuddy were around, or Cameron..but not Wilson.

A moment later, House's hand was gripping Wilson's arm and Wilson immediately looked at the computer screen to make sure nothing was wrong (he was relieved to see his stats were normal).

"I need a bucket," House whispered, swallowing painfully. Wilson looked around by his feet and found the trash can and moved from his seat beside the bed as House struggled to sit upright.

"Is it the drop in blood pressure?" Wilson asked as House pulled the garbage can onto the bed and hung his head over the side.

He dry heaved a few times and weakly said, "probably," before he threw up a small amount of bile.

_Dialysis can cause nausea. He had chemo today. He's fine_ Wilson told himself repeatedly. It didn't change the fact that he was nervous and worrying over other possible causes of his friend's illness.

Wilson checked his watch and saw there were at least ten minutes left for House's dialysis, but he couldn't stand it anymore. Ten minutes off today wouldn't hurt him, especially since he'd already had over three hours of treatment as it was. The day after tomorrow he'd have his second round; ten minutes was nothing.

While House dry heaved and vomited into the trash can, Wilson moved around the bed and started shutting off the dialysis machine. He pressed the nurse button as he worked, reaching above House's head to retrieve new gloves so he could remove the needles from House's wrist. The nurse came into the room and checked her watch, but before she could ask why he was ending early, Wilson said, "I need 5 milligrams of morphine stat."

With the needles removed and bandaids on - Wilson tried to have a sense of humor about it all and put Barbie bandaids on that he'd grabbed from Peds earlier when visiting with a younger patient - Wilson tentatively sat back down beside the bed. House looked up at him slowly, gripping the garbage can with one hand and wiping sweat and tears from his eyes and cheeks. Wilson stopped himself from reaching out; instead, he busied his hands with adjusting House's IV flow.

The nurse was back with Foreman a moment later. Wilson barely looked up when Foreman demanded to know why he'd stopped dialysis early.

"No flash photography," House said, his head hanging over the trash can again.

"He's in too much pain to keep going another ten minutes," Wilson explained, ignoring House and taking the syringe from the nurse, inserting it into the fluid bag slowly. "He's too sick today from the chemo and fever he had earlier. Ten minutes early is fine."

Foreman stopped beside the bed and they both looked down at House. Wilson heard the doctor sigh and was slightly surprised when Foreman said, "House, when was the last time you ate?" Wilson frowned; he hadn't seen House eat much, and the night before was the last half eaten meal he remembered him seeing him eat.

"I'm fine," House answered, lowering the trash can to the floor and leaning back against the raised bed. He closed his eyes and rubbed his leg with a wince. The morphine would knock him out again, and Wilson knew he wouldn't want to eat right now, but. . .

"I'll have someone bring up some toast," Wilson told him and ignored House's protests as he walked into the hallway. He found the nearest nurse and reached into his pocket to pull out his wallet. "Go to the cafeteria and get toast and bananas." He handed her a five dollar bill and gave her a tired smile. As she walked away, his pager went off and his first reaction was to look at House's room. Foreman was talking with House - they looked like they were arguing more than anything - so the page wasn't for House.

The message on the pager was about a patient of the fellow's, and he walked back into the room to tell House and Foreman he'd be back, lingering a moment to make sure House was okay before going down the hall to take care of the other patient.

* * *

As this story is coming to a close (the next chapter is the last) I would like to thank everyone who's stuck with it this last month. You guys rock. I have another story posted (just a one-shot) and I'm currently halfway done with another short/medium fic. 3 3


	30. Final Chapter

I don't own anything but the plot. 3 to my readers and my sweet beta.

* * *

Over a week later, House found himself on his back in the operating room, grimacing as a biopsy needle was pushed forcefully into his hip. He let out a small groan, breathing through the pain, suddenly glad for the Vicodin he'd taken an hour before.

"Can't you be gentler with that?" He asked through his clenched teeth, staring up at Wilson angrily. He wasn't mad at Wilson - he wasn't really mad at all - but Wilson was his nearest target.

"There's no less painful way of doing a biopsy, unless I knock you out," Wilson answered mildly, pulling the plunger and concentrating on the amount of bone marrow he was taking. "Since you didn't want to be knocked out, this is the best we can do. Suck it up."

"That's what he said," House muttered, and inhaled sharply as the needle started to pull out of his body.

"Where are we going for lunch?" Wilson asked, completely removing the needle and he put it on the table beside his body quickly. He picked up a cotton ball and held it to House's hip and taped it in place. "I can't go far because I have appointments and I want to get this to the lab."

House sat up slowly, wincing at the pain in his hip. His stomach fluttered as he looked over at the bone marrow Wilson just collected. Soon he'll know if the cancer was wiped out.

"I'm not really hungry and Kutner told me they need help with a patient," House said, and held up his hands defensively when Wilson looked at him sharply. "I'm not _technically_ working. I had a good night's rest in my own bed for the first time in weeks last night, with a hooker beside me and a bottle of Jack in my hands, and now I'm ready to get into the groove of things again. Five minutes."

Wilson shook his head and pulled off his rubber gloves, dropping them into the trash can smoothly. "Then I'll pick up some sandwiches and fries in the cafeteria and we can sit in your office."

"Fine. You know what I want," House said and jumped off the table, wincing as the weight on his leg shot a jolt of pain from his hip down to his knee.

House picked up his cane and began to move carefully out of the room.

"Wait," Wilson told him, and he paused to look over his shoulder. Wilson moved around the table and came up to House, holding out a paper mask. "Use it today."

"I'm not visiting China," House grumbled, but put the mask on anyway. He gave one last exasperated look at Wilson before turning forward and moving into the hallway. Hardly anyone glanced at him as he moved through the busy hallways, and he was glad for it. _A cancer patient walking through the cancer unit isn't that unheard of_.

Moments later he was striding through the doors into his office, and was horrified to see balloons and flowers on his desk. He looked to the connecting outer office at his team and they _all_ smiled back.

"You can come remove this crap now!" He said loudly, and they stood up, taking the backhanded invitation to come into the office. House sat down behind his desk, relieved to be back at work, and began rifling through the packages that came with the balloons. He grinned, the mask hiding his joy, as he picked up a bouquet of lollipops from Cuddy.

The flowers were from everyone, including some nurses from his department that he spent most of his time ignoring over the years. He wasn't a flower guy by any means, but it _was_ nice of people to do this.

"Split up the flowers amongst yourselves. Save the candy and money for me," House said, glancing up at the team briefly before pulling a red sucker from the bouquet and sticking it under the mask and into his mouth.

Thirteen smiled at him, making no move for the goodies on the table. "You look really good, House."

"Oh, I know," House said, pulling off his beanie and running a hand over his scalp. Tiny, short hairs poked his hands as he rubbed his head. "I'm growing back my hair. I don't think the bald look is good for me. It works for people like Foreman."

"You've put on weight, too," Kutner added, nodding as if in approval. House stared at him with his eyebrows raised.

"Yes. Once you stop throwing up fifteen times a day, food manages to stay in your system longer."

"Regardless," Foreman cut in, stalling anyone from continuing their helpful discussion. "We're happy to have you back. When do you officially start again?"

"Four weeks. I'm going on a vacation in three weeks." House glanced at his watch and sat back in his chair. "So what's going on with the patient?"

Immediately House was dragged into the case and he lost track of the time. He'd forgotten how much he enjoyed this part of his life. People depended on him, and he'd always known that, but being away for weeks and not being able to help had stabbed at him. His team, for the most part, stayed to the topic and patient at hand, though Taub stopped all conversation completely when he asked, "when do you get your biopsy results?"

"The results will be done when they're done. I'm not going to read them until I get back from Vegas," House said, eyeing each of his team individually, waiting for them to argue. They just nodded their acceptance; they'd probably sneak into the lab later and check for themselves. _Actually, _House thought. . . "if I find out any of you are snooping through my test results after I go home, you're fired."

The only person who looked even partially abashed was Kutner, which didn't surprise House in the least. The other three were better manipulators and liars.

The door to his office opened and before House could see past his team to see who came in, a picture was taken. Cameron lowered the camera and grinned; Chase stood behind her with an apologetic smile. House picked up his giant tennis ball and threw it at her before sticking his sucker back in his mouth and putting his feet up on the desk.

"Release the hounds," he said, looking up at Kutner, waiting for him to get the reference. He grinned in response, but otherwise didn't move. "Fine," House sighed and sat upright again. Cameron took _another_ picture. "What do you want?" He asked, agitation evident in his voice and eyes.

Cameron held out a wrapped gift, pocketing her camera. "We're glad you're back."

"I've been here for weeks! I haven't gone anywhere." House dropped the gift on top of the desk and looked up at her expectantly. She just smiled, apparently expecting him not to open it yet. "We're in the middle of a differential. Either join us or leave us. We're not talking about me anymore."

Chase and Cameron exchanged confused expressions, then Chase asked, "are you feeling okay? You love to talk about yourself."

"Har har har."

House looked up at his door and was thankful for the mask on his face that hid his relieved expression. Wilson came through the door with a bag of boxed food and a tray of drinks in his other hand. House shooed everyone from the room with parting words of wisdom ("Chase, she's in a hot mood now that she's seen me. The closet down the hall is never bothered.") and tore off the mask the moment Wilson sat down. He pulled his sandwich from the bag and opened the box of fries and stuck a fry in his mouth.

Wilson reached over and picked up the wrapped gift Cameron had left, and tore the paper off without asking permission. House raised an eyebrow but watched, curious despite himself.

"Wow," Wilson said after a moment, then handed the picture frame to House so he could see. "It might not be something to proudly hang in the office, but it's a good one."

House looked down at the picture in the frame and grimaced. It was the picture Cameron had taken during his first dialysis treatment. His eyes were closed and he had a slight smirk on his face, despite how pale he looked even in the black and white ink. Dark circles under his eyes magnified the look of death that was House.

"Gross," House finally said, putting the picture face-down beside his computer monitor and picking up his Reuben. Wilson chewed his fries thoughtfully, his head tilted to the side as he studied House.

"That picture was taken eight days ago and you already look 150 percent better."

"I _know_ I look good. Everyone keeps telling me that as if I didn't spend the entire morning admiring my reflection in the mirror," House said, exasperated, then picked up his soda and took a long drink from the straw.

"I dropped off the bone marrow. Should have results by the end of the work day. Are you going to be here?" Wilson asked, his voice light. House knew he was eager to see the test results, and House had made him swear he wouldn't look at them before House did.

"I need to go take care of my damaged bike," House said, shaking his head.

Wilson's hand stopped halfway to his mouth and he said, "you are? How are you getting there?" House grimaced; Wilson had taken him to work this morning, so he didn't have his car.

"I was going to take the bus. Maybe Cuddy will drop me off on her way home. Don't worry about it," House added, sticking a fry in his mouth. "You don't need to help me today. Take care of whatever you've blown off the last few weeks. I'm fine."

"I can't let you take the bus," Wilson said softly, and House internally groaned. He knew what Wilson was imagining now. _Amber_. "Let me drop you off there on the way back to my place at least."

_That will ensure that Wilson won't be here. ._

"I have to be there by four. I was planning on leaving by three."

"That's not a problem. I don't have much work that needs to be done here. It's mostly desk work that I can do at home tonight," Wilson said quickly, brushing his hands on his napkin. House stopped an amused smile from spreading onto his face. _He really wants to do this_.

"You _have_ to drop me off there. No tricking me. My bike's been in the shop for over two weeks now and it's been ready to be picked up for at least a week." House narrowed his eyes.

"Do you have a new helmet and jacket?" Wilson asked innocently. "The other ones were damaged too."

"They sell that kind of stuff there." House waved his hand dismissively. "It's not a problem."

Wilson chewed on his bottom lip in thought before saying, "you _really_ shouldn't be in public places yet."

"Whether you take me or not, I'm going down there to get my bike today." House raised his cup to his mouth and drank out of the straw, keeping eye contact with Wilson. Wilson stared back, torn between being supportive and behaving like his doctor, and when he sighed in defeat and nodded, House grinned. "I'm only going to be there for ten minutes, then I'll go straight home."

"I'm so sure," Wilson muttered, jabbing at his chicken with his plastic utensils. After a minute, he looked up and said, "if you go to a bar, will you at least call me if you need a ride home?"

The question surprised House and it took him a few seconds to get a hold of himself before responding. "I wasn't planning on going to a bar. Wilson, I'm not _stupid_. I know what could happen if I get sick right now with a cold. I know how dangerous drinking and driving is. I know how bad the public transportation in this city is. I'm a doctor who has seen and personally experienced all of the negativity's to every possible scenario. I'll call you if i need your help. Otherwise, go home, crack open a 40, and take a damn break."

Wilson smiled, and House felt immense relief at Wilson's acceptance.

----------**----------

"You don't need to come in, really. It's just signing a bunch of paperwork and getting my keys back," House said, exasperated. Wilson had his fingers wrapped around his keys, ready to turn off the car and come inside.

"I want to make sure you get your helmet," Wilson explained pathetically. The excuse was a lame one, and House rolled his eyes to deflect the emotion behind the words.

"I told you I'm not stupid."

Wilson dropped his hand from the keys in defeat. "Fine. But call me when you get home so I know you're safe."

"Yes mother," House said, putting his cane to the icy ground outside.

"Seriously, House. You're still recovering from chemo and you're still weak."

House turned his head and looked over his shoulder as he put his feet to the pavement. "I'm stronger now than I was weeks ago. I haven't had an 'oh shit!' scare in over a week." House watched emotions flash across Wilson's face; he was trying to accept House's words but he couldn't stop being concerned. "If it will get you to stop being a baby, I'll pull over if I start to feel weird and I'll call you."

"That's the best you can do. I'll be at home, then," Wilson said and House turned forward and got to his feet, hoping Wilson didn't see the slight shake in his legs. House wasn't feeling terrific, but he was well enough to drive to the hospital and then home afterward. The test results were waiting in the lab to be picked up and he'd be damned if he wasn't going to get to look at them in peace before his vacation.

After House shut the door and he walked inside the warm building of the body shop, Wilson put the car and gear and drove away. House limped to the counter and hung the cane over his wrist, then leaned heavily - but trying to go for nonchalance - onto the counter. The man behind the counter was a kid in his mid twenties wearing a gray jumpsuit with the name 'Levi' stitched across the breast.

House bit back a snarky remark about his name and said instead, "I'm here to pick up my bike. Gregory House."

Levi nodded and dug through a stack of paperwork, and House took the opportunity to look around the room at the few helmets they had on sale. He noticed they didn't have any jackets, which was fine because he was planning on buying a new one elsewhere on another day.

"I need a helmet, too," he said to Levi, and the guy eyed House up and down briefly before pointing behind House.

"That's the best one we've got. It's $450."

House looked at the helmet from the distance and shook his head. "No, I just need something to get me by until I get the one I want. Just ring me up for one that's moderately priced." House reached into his back pocket and pulled out his wallet.

Minutes later, he was standing out front with his new $225 helmet and watching Levi pull his bike around. He felt a surge of adrenaline as it stopped beside him, and he grinned despite himself. He missed riding his bike, and his shoulder was healed enough to operate it without worry. Plus, he'd doubled up on his Vicodin for the day, so he was far from concerned about pain and the possibility of an accident.

Once he'd inspected the bike and signed the last of the paperwork, he got on his bike and it roared to life when he kicked it on. _I'll miss this if I end up dying from leukemia_ he thought sadly, then pushed the thought aside and pulled on his helmet and gloves.

----------**----------

House narrowly avoided Cuddy on his way up to the lab. He'd sent his team home early after they'd diagnosed their last patient, and Cuddy was getting the clinic closed for the night. He had his helmet under his arm as he walked down the bustling hallway, feeling anxious with each step to the lab.

The lab technician barely looked up when House walked into the room, but eyed him suspiciously when House told him to give him his test results.

"Dr. Wilson needs to sign off on these," the guy said, holding a file tightly.

"Since when do you require a sign off on test results? They're just test results, and they're _my_ results. Give them up," House snapped, holding his hand out impatiently. His cane swung from his wrist almost threateningly.

The tech glanced at his partner, unsure of what to do, and House snatched the folder from his hands. He made his way to the door, and the men began to protest, their chairs screeching as they stood up to follow him. House paused at the door and turned his head around and said, "if Wilson says anything to you, tell him I overpowered you." They looked doubtfully at one another. House rolled his eyes and pushed the door open, his heart thudding in his chest. "Trust me, he won't get upset. I'll even bring these back when I'm done so he'll never know you failed at your job."

House was out of the lab before they could say anything more, and he walked as quickly as he could to his office. If he were capable of it, he'd be running through the halls, but the last thing he needed to do was cause a scene and get Cuddy involved. _Or Cameron. Ugh_.

Once safely locked in his office, House flipped on the lights and drew the blinds. He threw his cane on the chair with his helmet and rubbed his leg as he walked around his desk to sit down.

The green folder taunted him as he looked down at it, biting his lip nervously. He glanced up once to make sure his office was empty, then opened the folder and skimmed through the results.

----------**----------

Wilson pulled into the parking lot at Princeton Plainsboro and shook his head in amazement when he saw House's bike in his handicap spot. Truthfully, it didn't surprise him in the least that he'd lied and come back here anyway. It would surprise him more if House wasn't looking at his test results.

After debating in his idling car for a minute about whether he should go inside or go back home, he shut off his car and got out. House couldn't have been here long - he'd dropped him off 45 minutes ago - and he wondered if he could catch him before he got to the lab. _Probably too late now_.

Once he got inside, he stopped long enough at a vending machine to get two cups of coffee, then pushed the button on the elevator to go up to their floor.

"What are you doing back here?" Cuddy asked from behind him, and he turned to give her his attention. "House isn't here, is he?"

"Yes," he answered simply, then stepped into the elevator after the doors opened. She walked in after him and pressed the button for him.

"Why? I thought you guys weren't going to look at the test results..?"

Wilson just shrugged. "I don't know what he's doing here. He said he'd go home. You know he's probably up in his office looking at them anyway."

"And he wasn't going to tell us," she added, her voice heated. A stab of anger hit Wilson at the tone in her voice. _How dare she get angry at him for that? If he didn't want to tell anyone, it's not anyone's business but his own._ He knew he was a hypocrite for the thought. If he truly felt that way, he wouldn't be here right now. _If he doesn't want to tell me, that's okay._ But he knew deep down it wouldn't be okay if House didn't share the results when he knew.

They stepped off of the elevator once the doors opened and they stopped beside the closing door, unsure of what to do.

"I'll just check on patients. If he tells you, and it's okay to tell me. . ." she trailed off, looking up at Wilson with a pleading expression.

"I'll let you know if and when I find out," he promised, and she smiled, blinking back tears. His stomach flipped, and he mentally braced himself for what House was going to say or do.

They went separate ways, and Wilson started dragging his feet the closer to House's office he got. The lights were on inside, and the blinds were pulled shut. He heard the bass from his speakers from down the hall.

_Oh no._ Loud music could mean anything. In this case, though, he was afraid that it could be bad news.

Wilson stood in front of the door for a minute, collecting his emotions and holding them tightly inside. He took a deep breath and slowly pushed the door open.

House was sitting in his desk chair, his back to the door. He was tossing his tennis ball in the air and catching it, bobbing his head to the music. Wilson stopped just inside the door, watching his friend, trying to figure out the mood. His mind raced, and he couldn't quite grasp the situation.

"House?" He finally blurted out when the music started to quiet. House stopped tossing the ball, but didn't turn around. "I brought coffee -"

"You followed me." House didn't make it a question. He didn't sound angry, or upset.. just tired.

"No. I..figured you'd come back here," Wilson admitted, shifting uncomfortably from foot to foot. "I can leave. Do you want this?"

House turned his head for a moment, and Wilson lifted the coffee cup a bit.

"Sure." House spun his chair around and put the tennis ball back on his desk. Wilson stiffly moved forward and handed the cup to him, then stood there awkwardly, unsure of what to say or do. The green file with House's test results sat closed on top of the rest of House's books and paperwork. _Ask him what it says! _ His mind screamed at him, but he couldn't force the words out of his mouth.

"Want to go get some dinner? Watch a movie?" House asked casually, taking a sip of his coffee, meeting Wilson's eyes over the rim of the cup. Wilson's mouth went dry, and he tried to form a full thought. _He's okay. He wouldn't be this calm if he wasn't, would he?_

"I..yeah. Sure." Wilson's eyes drifted back to the folder. He swallowed back bile and tried to breathe slowly to ease his racing pulse.

House watched him carefully before saying, "I got a new helmet. I need to buy a better one though." He nodded to the chair behind Wilson. Wilson barely glanced over his shoulder. _I don't care about your fucking helmet, House!_

"You said you wouldn't look at them before the trip," Wilson finally said, and anger flared up again. He tried to suppress it, raising his hand to his neck to distract himself from lashing out.

"You said you'd go home," House retorted, raising his eyebrows.

"So did _you_," Wilson snapped, placing his coffee cup on the edge of the desk. His hands were starting to shake and he knew he'd drop the cup at any moment.

"Everybody lies. Test results lie, too," House said smoothly, and Wilson completely froze. He closed his eyes slowly, steadying himself at the words House said. _No. Please, no more_.

"Either tell me, or don't, but stop fucking with me House. I can't deal with this game," Wilson growled, raising his hand to the bridge of his nose.

House was quiet for a few moments, and when papers started rustling on his desk, Wilson forced his eyes open. He was holding out the green folder for him to take. Wilson studied House's face momentarily, but couldn't decipher what he saw. He pulled the folder from House's grip and opened it tentatively.

Before he was done reading the biopsy results, tears had formed in Wilson's eyes. He had to blink a few times to clear his vision, re-reading the words. He fell into the chair beside his legs, no longer able to stand.

They were silent for a few seconds, and House turned the music off when Wilson closed the folder.

Wilson broke the silence with a shaky sigh. "You still have to do consolidation therapy for a few weeks even though you're in remission."

"I know."

"It could come back. We'll have to test you every six months or so."

"If I have to tell you I'm not stupid one more time today, you're fired," House said lightly, and Wilson raised his eyes from the closed folder to House's face.

"You exhaust me."

"Admit it. You loved taking care of me the last few weeks. You'll miss it terribly."

Wilson put the folder back on top of House's desk and laughed to himself softly. Relief flowed through him, and he felt happier than he had in so long.

"You're such a jackass," Wilson managed to say before he started laughing louder. "I need a beer."

"I thought you had work to do at home?" House asked innocently, and Wilson waved it off.

"We have a reason to celebrate tonight. Work can wait." Wilson smiled at House, who gave a small smile back. _He's happy, even if he doesn't want to show it._ Wilson's smile faded, though, and he said, "Cuddy knows you're here. She's going to want to know what the results say."

House groaned and sat back in his chair, lacing his fingers behind his head. "I can't have a secret very long at this place, can I?"

"You don't _have_ to tell her. But I will. Screw patient-doctor confidentiality. She's been here through all of this, and she deserves to know. And she doesn't deserve to be screwed with like what you did to me," Wilson said with a slight frown. "That was wrong."

"It was entertaining," House explained, a full smile finally breaking onto his face. "It was fun watching you squirm."

"You're sick."

"Ah, but I'm not dying. At least not right now. There's always tomorrow," House mused, tilting his head while he scratched his forehead. Then he looked over at Wilson. "You can go tell Cuddy if you want. I don't want to deal with her tears and hugs. It's bad enough I had to watch you hold back tears."

Wilson stood up from his chair and put his hands on his hips, waiting for House to struggle to his feet a moment later. Once House was fully upright, he walked around the desk and put his arms around House and said into his ear, "just because you almost died doesn't mean you can bail out on sharing the good news."

House patted Wilson's back a few times before pushing him away. His face was blank, and Wilson knew he was trying to hide whatever _embarrassing_ emotion he was feeling. _Relief. Happiness. Appreciation._ The list was endless, but Wilson knew him well enough to know that he felt something positive, and that was all he needed to know.

* * *

Thank you guys so so so much for sticking with this story :) I hope you enjoyed it. I have a few new stories started already, be sure to check my profile for updates. Perhaps I'll do a follow up ficlet on the vacation :p


End file.
